Dare to Love My Grumpy Boss: Romantic Comedy (Forever Marriage Match Book 1)

by Ellie Hall

  I clear my throat. “Send her in.”

  Cora, wearing a pair of slacks and a cardigan, stands in the doorway. Her hair is smooth. Her face is fresh. The look she gives me would make the caiman run in fear. Then her face slides to neutral indifference. No warmth.

  The worry and dread I’d felt at the resort comes back strong.

  “Hello, sir,” she says robotically.

  Doubt wraps around my brain. But so does desire. Despite Cora’s proximity, I shut down my longing. “Ah, my new assistant.”

  No relations between employees. She doesn’t like me, anyway.

  I arch an eyebrow then return to my computer screen. “Large coffee, black,” I say.

  She shoots a double death stare then turns to leave. I catch the edge of a sly smile.

  For some reason, I get the sense we didn’t leave the survival of the fittest contest in the jungle. She used me to keep her job. I get it because I’ve done things I’m not proud of to earn money. Let the games begin. Only I’ll make sure she wins and then walk quietly out the back door.

  “Don’t spit in it,” I call, getting the sense that this new arrangement isn’t going to last long.

  17

  Cora

  Was surviving the Amazon Rainforest really worth being demoted? Sure, I can still afford cheese and chocolate, but I’d almost prefer unemployment to the email I received from Simon over the weekend. He’d written that as a result of the merger, my new position at AmTech was as Shaw Dawson’s assistant.

  While still at the resort, I was going to march over to Rick and Simon, announce that I quit, and then do a cannonball into the pool, splashing them. However, Shaw had their attention, likely resulting in my present situation.

  I stand in front of the coffee station, inwardly chanting my new mantra.

  Don’t spit in the coffee. Don’t spit in it.

  It did cross my mind... I was going to do it...

  While I wait for the coffee to brew, I get an idea. Forget the game show the Marriage Match, my new reality TV show is Survival of the Fittest, the Office Edition.

  Game on, nerds. Game over, Shaw.

  I set the coffee on his desk and then wait by the door for further instruction...and to start my reign of terror. Watch out for Queen Cora. I may not use a guillotine, but I will slice and dice his computer software. Yes, I’m feeling kind of vengeful after he fell into the waiting arms of his leggy, glamazon girlfriend.

  Without looking up from his computer, Shaw reaches for the paper cup.

  Cold. What happened to knocking on my door at the resort and begging my forgiveness? It’s like he flipped a switch. I didn’t want him to grovel, but he could’ve at least acknowledged that he’d duped me.

  It’s totally immature, but I thought he was pining over me and this new job was a ploy to get back in my good graces. What’s that saying about a woman scorned? I’ll show him.

  Just when the cup’s rim is inches from Shaw’s lips, I innocently clear my throat. It’s the daintiest of ahems.

  His chestnut-brown eyes lift and meet mine.

  For a hot minute, okay, three days, I thought they were the dreamiest eyes I’d ever seen. Now, they belong to the enemy. The thing is, I’m the one who was wronged. Did our kiss mean anything? Our conversations? The connection? No, he just wanted to keep his job.

  It was all a big manipulation to trick me as per the unwritten rules of Simon’s psychotic game.

  WHAT HAPPENED IN THE JUNGLE DIDN’T STAY IN THE JUNGLE. I’M NOT SO QUICK TO FORGET. OR FORGIVE. YOU FOOLED ME. NOW, I’M THE FOOL. THEN, JUST TO REALLY RUB IN THAT I’M A BIG, NERDY LOSER, YOU’RE NOW HAVING ME WORK AS YOUR ASSISTANT SO YOU CAN PARADE AROUND YOUR GLAMAZON GIRLFRIEND AND SUPERIOR POSITION? YOU HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING, JERK OF THE JUNGLE.

  I say all of this in my head at a loud volume.

  “Yes?” Shaw asks in real-time at my repeated ahem.

  “My stomach has been feeling a little off since the trip to the Amazon. I went to the doctor over the weekend and he cautioned me about sharing food related items until the test results come back.” I inwardly laugh at the lie. Yes, I’m playing dirty. You would too if you saw the glamazon.

  Shaw glances down at the coffee.

  “Just thought you should know. He mentioned something about gastro-itchinillitis or something.”

  I totally made that up.

  “Haven’t heard of it.”

  Duh.

  “Yeah, a rare parasite from river water, I guess. Best to be cautious. It’s kind of embarrassing, but he said to call him immediately if I have explosive flatulence.”

  Keep a straight face, Cora.

  Shaw’s lip twitches like he might be onto me. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.

  “Thankfully, nothing like that so far. But I haven’t quite felt like myself since returning home.”

  With no thanks to you, dweeb.

  Shaw sets the coffee down and then returns to his task as if he’s erased our time bonding on the HUB and surviving the jungle never happened. I feel like drooping, puddling here on the floor. But I won’t let him see my weakness.

  “Anything else I can get for you, sir?” I say in a forced-friendly voice.

  “Yes, your laptop. Sign into the PowerTech backend and—” I stop listening because I know what he wants me to do. Back to basics, I guess. No more developing programs on my own, leading a team, or using my skills to their potential.

  Each time I press my shoulders back, they sag. I’m a wilting flower. I set up my laptop and am thankful for the high-backed, ergonomic swivel chair to keep me upright.

  We sign into a shared network and get started. He gives me directions in a monotone.

  “This deviates from the usual procedure,” I say.

  “You don’t want to risk missing out on winning employee of the month.” That’s code for, Just do what I say.

  I know the drill, boss.

  His expression is aloof as if I’m a basement-level employee. I’d better get used to that tro-gre life.

  As the day progresses, Shaw gets more and more distant, irritable, a real grump. His keyboard goes silent. Maybe he’s getting a late-morning energy slump. I’d offer him part of my homemade Snickers bars—I perfected the recipe containing nougat, caramel, and ensconced in milk chocolate (yes, ensconced!) after testing it out four times just to be sure I had it right. Wink, wink.

  What? I had a long week.

  From behind my screen, I peek at Shaw as he rubs his temples. His eyes are closed and a faint shade of purple smudges beneath from lack of sleep or stress.

  “Have a headache? That’s one of the first signs of an itchill...infestation.” Drat. I forget the name of the illness I made up. “Or it could be from lack of caffeine.”

  “No, it’s that I can’t get past this relay code.”

  Without thinking, I get out of my chair and set my fingers on his keypad, rapidly typing the fix. A little ping that reminds me of the HUB notifications tells me it was successful.

  Instead of a thank you, Shaw says, “Am I going to have to sanitize the keyboard now?”

  I offer a modest if not innocent shrug. “Only if you’re concerned about getting—”

  “What was it called again?” he asks as if calling me out.

  “Yeah, it’s quite the mouthful. Speaking of that, would you look at the time? It’s just about lunch. Hungry?”

  He scrubs his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to risk contamination. I’ll go get us something to eat.”

  “Thank you,” I say, emphasizing my manners and pinching myself because my plan is backfiring.

  He just grunts, reminding me of the version of Shaw I first met when we’d arrived in the Amazon.

  Serious.

  Confident.

  Cocky.

  And like his facial muscles had atrophied from not smiling or laughing.

  Also, hot in a capable, rugged kind of way. But that’s beside the point.

  I saw him with Glamazon
, and I can’t unsee him. (In case you’re wondering, Glamazon is the redhead he hugged the second he got to safety. I was also considering referring to her as the Ruiner, but she was here first—just wish Shaw had mentioned something about being attached to a gorgeous woman who would’ve made being stranded in the rainforest an elegant affair.)

  There’s no reconciling this version of Shaw with @PacManWizard. There must have been a mistake. A glitch. My dorky programmer e-boyfriend is still out there somewhere, waiting for me to tell him all about my adventures in Brazil. At least, this is what I’m telling myself.

  “Indiana Grump,” I mumble.

  “I heard that,” he replies as he exits.

  “Don’t spit in my sandwich,” I holler.

  I fully expect Shaw to return with a couple of very soggy pieces of bread.

  Pause.

  I go still at the same time I see him freeze about three paces away from the elevator. He gives a little shake of the head.

  What are the chances we had the exact same thought at the exact same time?

  I’m guessing his super-computer brain could calculate it. I also wonder about what secrets and strategies his computer contains. If I’m quick, I can probably keep it from going to sleep and locking me out. He probably has a thirty-second timer set on it.

  The stars on the screensaver rush past like we’re traveling through space. Too late. Missed my window of opportunity to spy. When he gets back, I’m going to tell him the nineties called and they want their primitive technology back.

  Not that I would’ve spied on my boss, anyway.

  Blech. My boss.

  Nor will I say anything other than the bare minimum because he’s a deceitful jerkface.

  And the guy I don’t want to spit in my sandwich. Point to me for getting my boss to fetch me lunch. But I needed a break from his heavy, downer energy. He’s such a grump.

  But back to the spit and what stopped me cold. Apart from spitting in someone’s sandwich being inherently gross, should it matter because, ahem, we have swapped spit.

  I’m sorry! TMI, I know. But it’s true.

  I have plenty of time to think about this because Shaw must get lost on the way to the cafeteria. My stomach grumbles and I browse online for recipe ideas. Tonight, I’m having a feast to celebrate what I’m dubbing Revenge of the Office Assistant.

  You’d think with all of these big screen deals I’d be a famous actress by now. I ought to talk to Paisley. Maybe she has an in since she’s marrying famous actor Jason Cobb.

  Paisley! My girls! They’ll help me create a masterful plot.

  Me: Update on the Stranded in Amazon Saga...

  Another one of my upcoming releases. It’ll be in theaters near you this summer!

  Me: I am now the official coffee girl for none other than Indiana Grump. Yes, Shaw is now my boss. My Grumpy Boss. And it doesn’t end there. He wants me to help him with some stupid project and make me do the dirty work. I have no doubt his brilliant mind could figure out the code without my help. What can I do to make him miserable?

  The mention of brilliant reminds me of brie-lliant. Brie reminds me that I’m hungry and okay, fine, I also start thinking about mine and Shaw’s cheesy banter.

  Paisley sends a frowny face.

  Mila: That buttface

  Me: The buttiest of buttfaces

  Daisy: Sorry, friend. Sending hugs.

  Blakely: I think you already did make him miserable.

  I can rely on Mila to be angry for me. Daisy is always so sweet and won’t say anything negative about anyone ever. Not even her baby daddy who left her high and dry. She won’t even tell us who he is because she said, and I quote, “I don’t want you going after him like a pack of rabid she-wolves.”

  She’s not wrong.

  But Blakely’s comment makes me think. I’m so deep down in the recesses of my mind (yes, replaying every second of every kiss Shaw and I shared), I hardly notice when he comes in.

  He slides a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper across the table. A sticker labeled turkey and cheese seals it shut. But I notice it’s peeled up at the edge.

  “You!” I holler, jumping to my feet and knocking my knees into the coworking desk adjusted for his height.

  His coffee, still full from earlier (I imagine he’s going to send the contents in for testing), spills in what seems like slow motion, all over the detachable USB keyboard.

  “You!” he hollers back.

  “Yes, you. You did something to my sandwich.”

  Heat creeps up his neck.

  I tilt my head and grind out, “What did you do?”

  He tucks his hands behind his back.

  “What are you hiding?” I lunge at him and wrest a receipt from his hands.

  No, we’re not going to think about how his touch electrifies me.

  I read the evidence only to find he was charged for extra cheese. My closed lips slide from side to side as I weigh his deception—the lunch thing not the other, bigger, caiman-sized lizard in the room.

  “I know you like cheese.” His expression is pure bashful innocence.

  “I also liked you, you big jerk.” There, I said it.

  Simon’s dry laugh wheezes from down the hall and Shaw starts sopping up the coffee. My actual boss darkens the doorway. “What happened here?”

  “Coffee spill,” Shaw says, patting the liquid with the napkins he must’ve gotten from the cafeteria.

  “Cora, go get a rag to help him clean that up.”

  I have one of those fantasy moments where I do something dramatic like sweep everything from the desk (although, in this instance, that wouldn’t be very effective since it’s just a pair of computers and two sandwiches). I’ve thought about quitting. I’d like to, but there’s health insurance, a 401k, and all those adulty things I know I’ll thank myself for someday.

  Blakely, who’s also self-employed, but the CEO of her own corporation, said I could still obtain all of that and not work for the man, as she put it. But it sounds like a lot of work.

  Instead, I shrug my way to the door.

  Shaw brushes past me, leaving me and Simon alone in the room.

  “Ah, accidents happen.”

  This would also be a moment to say, What like leaving two of your employees to fend for themselves in the wilderness? Not the woods on the edge of the city where we could walk a few miles and find a Dunkin Donuts. No, we were stranded in the Amazon. The Amazon!

  Simon snorts. “Well, better get back to work. That Proxy Protocol can’t write itself.”

  My brow furrows and I consider sticking my tongue out at Simon as he leaves, but propriety and something else stops me.

  What does he mean about Proxy Protocol? It’s the enigma of all codes and well beyond the scope of work here at AmTech—or PowerTech now that the merger has gone through.

  The Proxy Project is legendary. No one has ever been able to complete it. If you’re not a computer nerd like me, let me put it this way, figuring out how to close a certain loop in the code would be like finding a Dead Sea Scroll. Whoever started it, nearly reached the end, but somewhere along the way, another piece of code worked like a boomerang, sending the final strand back to itself repeatedly.

  Actually being able to break that pattern and complete the segment would be revolutionary for information technology. Not only would it complete the code to add an additional safeguard for data, but other companies could also use it to protect their assets. It would basically put hackers out of work.

  No more apologetic emails to unsuspecting relatives about the adult content spam from your account. No more alerts from credit card companies that your personal data may have been compromised. And people like Shaw and me wouldn’t have to work quite so hard to fortify and protect the castle walls.

  He comes in with a wad of paper towels.

  “You!” I repeat.

  Check that. I’m definitely defending the castle walls.

  But I keep my revelation to myself because if I’m rig
ht, that also means I’m working on the Proxy Protocol...and if I am, so long Shaw, Simon, and Rick. I don’t need to be stuck in a dank cubicle for sixty-plus hours per week. With that accomplishment under my belt, I could work anywhere.

  Although, this office has a very nice view.

  Of the Charles River. Not Shaw Dawson.

  Sheesh.

  Focus, people. We have work to do.

  18

  Cora

  Captains Log: Stardate fourteen.

  Yes, it’s only been two weeks at my new job as Shaw’s assistant, but they’ve been fourteen grueling miserable, and confusing days.

  We’ll call this show Desk Wars. I would’ve gone with Star Wars, but it was already taken. Not fair.

  Why Star Wars? Because of Shaw’s dumb screensaver. He has that thing set to lock after ten seconds. The guy doesn’t trust anyone!

  Why Desk Wars? Because we sit at a desk (a shared one, mind you, but on opposite sides) and this is war. And yes, I know the Stardate and Captain’s log references are from another television and movie franchise.

  Shaw has me writing the most basic code. I mean, I was doing this only a couple of years out of college. So rudimentary. That’s the grueling part.

  I’m miserable because my boss is so moody. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not all sunshine and rainbows either. I won’t go on a tangent about the beautiful rainbow we saw after the storm cleared back in the Amazon—when we had a moment realizing how amazing and vast the world is and then kissed. That feels like a lifetime ago. In fact, I’m quite sure I went back in time—known as B.@PMW. Before @PacManWizard. I don’t even have private HUB messages from him to distract me from my boring job.

  Oh wait, I do and he’s seated across from me. But @PacManWizard isn’t who I thought he was. Shaw does little more than grunt, tell me to focus on work, and to stop asking questions. He says I already know the answers.

  Yeah, that you’re a lying, conniving, buttface. Thanks for that one, Mila.