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Hazel
I hate my boss.
Sometimes, I fantasize about slamming him hard against the wall right after he barks one of his insane orders at me. In my head, it goes seamlessly, even though I'm 5'4” and he's over a foot taller. He's also a wall of muscles, nicely tucked under a top-dollar Italian designer suit.
But back to my fantasy—I put him in his place, splaying my hands over his chest, pressing my palm against his heart, and feeling it beat its way out of his impressive chest. A small smile forms on my lips, the pang of triumph finally running down my spine. Oh, yes. After a year of working for him and putting up with all kinds of bullshit, things are coming to a head.
My contempt. My frustration. My… crazy hot arousal.
He groans, obviously shocked I have the nerve to put a man like him in his place. But it's been a long time coming… So I give him a once over and press my body against him, tipping up my chin to get a glimpse of his dark blue eyes. Eyes that almost darken to black when he's upset. Which is often. The man is miserable.
Sexy as hell and miserable like the devil. What an unfortunate combination.
I wish I could?—
"Hazel.” His deep voice sends prickles to every nerve in my body. He pops his head out of his office and steps toward my desk.
I immediately drop my pen and close my journal. I shove it inside the drawer, the second one from the top, and raise my gaze to his. When my coworker, Emma, recommended journaling to relieve stress, I don't know if she meant it like this—at work, when I'm on the clock. I also may have omitted to tell her I'm attracted to my boss, but if I share my obsession with her, the whole office will know the next day.
"Yes?"
He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. "My office.”
I stand, smoothing my hands over my sensible black blouse and pants ensemble. "Of course."
I make my way to his office, counting the ten steps to his heavy, dark wood open double doors. As usual, the view of downtown Dallas greets me, as does the skyline displayed on the glass wall behind the man sitting at the desk.
His space represents him well: austere, sophisticated, and lacking in emotional and personal touches. A few photographs stack the shelves, mostly of him with influential people and the awards he's won in the travel industry. A set of leather sofas, a coffee table, and a wet bar occupy the large right corner of the space.
He clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him.
The man. The devil himself. Archer Cromwell.
The forty-two-year-old CEO and founder of Cromwell Travel.
"Let's go over your daily mistake," he says sarcastically. "I asked you to send flowers to Allegra."
I swallow the lump in my throat. Shit. He's right. I'm highly efficient at organizing his professional life. I've "accidentally" gotten dates or places wrong for the past few weeks at least once a week. Call it my way of passive-aggressively telling him I'm fed up with keeping tabs on his romantic shenanigans.
"Yes, done. This morning." I somehow pull off an innocent expression. I should have joined the drama club in high school.
He tilts his head to the side, then shoves his fingers through his dark brown hair. The style makes his handsome face striking, and his evil stance is alluring. "Really? Because Allegra called me and said the card was addressed to Payton."
"Oh." I feign surprise and touch my lips. "I'm terribly sorry."
"As you know, Payton was the woman I dated before Allegra. So now Allegra is mad and won't see me."
I shrug. A small measure of female pride travels down my spine. "Isn't the strong bond you two share enough? I mean, you've dated her for three weeks. Isn't she impressed?"
He clenches his jaw and stares at me in silence for a moment.
I square my shoulders, and a wave of concern washes through me. Is he reading between the lines? I clear my throat. No, he can't. He's too self-involved to think about anyone but himself. Besides, I need this job. The incredible health insurance covers my dad's many health problems. Also, this is the reason I don't quit, especially after Dad's last hip replacement. That shit adds up.
"Hazel, are you fucking with me?" he asks at last.
I widen my eyes. I wish I could fuck him. You know how some people say they can drink you under the table? I'm pretty sure Archer could fuck me under the table, or on the bed, or over his desk. A shiver travels through me. "I wouldn't dare." Heat fills my cheeks, and I glance down like he's discovered my secret. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cromwell. Really, I am."
