My Boss's Forbidden Daughter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Heartbreakers Book 3)

by Lindsey Hart

  I want to take her out to dinner to spend time with her. It’s that simple.

  Which is surprising, because I haven’t wanted to do anything along those lines with anyone in a long time.

  “Go clean up in the bathroom,” Cassie groans, sagging against the wall by her office door. “I’ll get the mop and the bleach.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Cassie

  “I expected you to be an asshole, you know?”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “Well…” Suddenly I feel ridiculous for blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

  “Care to explain that?” John’s brows do this funny thing where they dance upwards like a wave one at a time. It’s kind of cute. And interesting. I think it’s actually a talent to be able to move your brows up and down like that. You can bat your eyelashes, but it takes way more skill to bat your brows.

  “Uhhh…” I make the world’s biggest production of studying the menu. I haven’t read a word, and I don’t have a clue what I want. “We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, and neither of us said anything. I’m already nervous. I don’t do dinners. Period. Not with employees. Not with coworkers. I—er—I was nervous. And I thought it would come out funny. In a dry way. It didn’t. It came out wrong.” I wish I could stop the babble falling out of my mouth, but it comes out like a flood, without ceasing. I’m just making things worse. I prop my menu up over my face, trying to look natural and smooth while doing it.

  I probably look like shit. I feel like shit too. A fuzzy, pickled piece of crap.

  “You were probably just distracted by my oversized nose,” John states dryly.

  I snap the menu down in horror but find him grinning at me. His nose is a little swollen, and so is his bottom lip. I feel terrible about it, even though he’s cleaned up since then. It’s been a couple of hours. I met him at this tiny little out of the way place that he tells me makes the best Italian food in the city. So far, the smell has proven him right.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I said that. I am. I never meant for—”

  “I know. Stop worrying.” He wags his brows again, and I have to actually smother a laugh. “Now tell me. Why did you think I’d be an asshole?”

  “Your name is John.”

  He thumps his chest with a fist. “Right here. Right in the heart. My poor mom. Insulting her name choice.”

  “Okay, that’s not why. I’m sorry about that too.” His easy grin makes it easier to joke with him. To feel strangely comfortable even after what just happened. The whole office clothes flying off, hands and tongue touching who-ha incident as well. Also, the mad dash after, and my attempted murder with a door deal. All of it.

  “Why then? By the way, the spaghetti and meatballs are excellent. I would definitely get that. Or pizza. Or anything. I know you haven’t read a single word on that menu, and we probably have about thirty seconds before our server comes back, so I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  Holy grilled cheese sandwiches, this guy is way too perceptive. What kind of a curse is holy grilled cheese sandwiches? I definitely need to up my game on the not cursing front.

  “Er—I—I don’t want to say.”

  “You can’t leave me hanging here.” He grazes his nose pointedly, guilting me into it. “You owe it to me.”

  I throw down my menu with an aggravated sigh. “You’re the worst.”

  “So, I’ve been told. By you.”

  “Whatever. I thought you were going to be an asshole because most hot guys usually are.”

  “So, you think I’m hot?”

  “I never said that.” I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek for a few seconds. I have to drop my eyes. I focus on the glass of water with the little lemon wedge in front of me. “I think you have the usual attributes that most people find pleasing. When that happens, I’ve learned, from experience and general observation, that a person who becomes aware they’re pleasing will turn into a raging douchebag.”

  John pushes the menus to the side of the table. I can feel his gaze scalding me, but I don’t look up. The general buzz and hum of the restaurant carry on around us. It’s a cozy place, the typical kind of homey family-style restaurant. It’s one of those gems that every person has tucked up their sleeve. A personal favorite with some kind of special vibe beyond the good food. I have one too. It’s actually an ice cream stand, but whatever. It still counts.

  “So, you’ve experienced this firsthand? I could find him, you know. Lure him into a trap we set together. I can chase him, and you can stand at the exit with the door poised and ready—”

  “Argh!” My fingers curl around my water glass.

  “Please don’t throw that in my face. I mean, you can, but our server is coming, and you might splash her too. It’ll be horribly embarrassing, so if you’re going to do it, can you just wait until she leaves, and I can die in peace?”

  Despite everything, a wobbly, reluctant smile works its way over my lips. It’s impossible to resist his light, teasing tone and not get sucked into his self-deprecating humor.

  His face becomes somewhat serious. “I’d like to know one thing about you. One thing no one else knows.”

  I swallow hard. “You already know that.” He stares back, confused. “You know I have a penchant for slamming doors in people’s faces. I’ve never bloodied anyone else’s nose before, so that’s something, I guess.”

  “No. Something else.” John’s lips twitch into a smile. A very attractive smile.

  I’m almost sure everyone else in the place is looking at him. How can they not? John’s face is like a magnet for the eyes. I allow myself a slow, surreptitious glance around, but I don’t find anyone ogling us. I let out a small sigh of relief. If anyone was looking, they’d probably notice John’s nose, and then they’d notice my obvious guilt at their noticing, and then someone would make a call about all that guilt, and I’d probably be arrested right here like a raid going down for coworker abuse.

  “Something else…” I mutter, trying to buy myself some time. “Something else—hmm. I don’t know. I’m not that interesting.”

  John sips at his water. There’s a lemon wedge on the glass. To my surprise, he removes it, brings it to his mouth, and sucks at it like it’s an orange slice. He doesn’t even pucker up before he drops the remainder into his water glass. I stare at the floating lemon with the bite marks. Is it irrational to be jealous of fruit? Yes. And incredibly inappropriate.

  “I’ll go first.” John takes pity on me. “I used to read a lot. I had a pretty boring childhood. I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin, and there wasn’t much to do. I’d play outside, and I’d read. We didn’t even get the internet until I was sixteen.”

  “Sixteen?” I gasp. “How did you ever manage?”

  “Quite well. We didn’t know the difference.” He grins, and my stomach does all sorts of happy cartwheels, even though I can think of a few other good uses for John’s mouth at the moment. They’re all arrest worthy too, so I try to stop thinking them before a raid really happens.

  “So, a small town in Wisconsin, eh? What brought you to Miami then?”

  “Actually, it was my parent’s decision. My dad lost his job, not that there was much work to begin with. He managed a small grocery store there, but the place ended up closing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I was too. I actually liked it. The town was called Henderson, and I liked it very much. The school was alright. Everyone knew each other, but not in the really nosy kind of way. We all had lots of friends. I’d known most of the people there my whole life. My dad applied to tons of jobs. It didn’t seem to matter which state they were in. He ended up getting a job at a big chain grocery store in Miami. I guess…” he looks right at me. “I guess we both have a grocery background.”

  “It’s not that glamorous.”

  “It might not be, but it gave our family a fresh start and good opportunities. I didn’t like Miami at first, but I guess it grew on me and I went to
college here, studied business, and never left. I worked at a few managerial jobs and accounting jobs, but I was never overly happy. I was always browsing for something else, even if I didn’t apply. When I saw this, it seemed like the fresh start my dad got. It was a pretty random thing to do because other than what my dad told us, I knew nothing about grocery stores, and that was a long time ago. When I saw the post, it just felt like the right thing to do. I needed a change. It’s only temporary, so that’s nice too.”

  “Most people hate temp work.”

  “I know. I get bored, though. I get restless. I like to change it up.”

  I wonder, sourly, if he likes to change up everything in his life. It’s just another not so subtle reminder that handsome men are usually assholes. He probably likes to change up his women all the time, which would explain why he’s thirty-five and still single. I know that’s like the pot calling the kettle black, because I’m just a few years younger, but at least I can blame my singleness on assholes like him and being a career-driven woman. Independence is a good thing. Forty is the new twenty and all that.

  “Anyway, I was telling you about the reading thing because I wanted to say that the thing most people don’t know about me is I like to read adventure books. Pioneer stuff. They always just seemed so exciting, exploring something new and fresh. I wonder what it would have been like to live then, to be free, to just be able to explore all that unchartered territory. To wake up every day to something fresh and exhilarating. What are you—”

  John’s eyes widen in astonishment when I pick up my glass. I was right. This guy is all about new experiences. He’s a player. He’s the type of guy I can’t stand. The hottie who thinks the world owes him something because he’s so freaking hot. He’s so hot that he can literally have any woman salivating all over his ankles like a rabid dog, and he probably does. I’m just the flavor of the week. God. Maybe not even the week. Maybe I’m just the flavor of the night. Maybe he likes aggressive women who practically hump his leg after hours because they’re so pathetically into him. Maybe he likes women who play rough and slam doors in his face. Maybe he’s still hoping to score tonight. He probably didn’t have a freaking condom because he used them all up, a whole box, every night of the week so far.

  “Flickstack on your adventure novels,” I grind out as I lift the glass to eye level. “And fitter frizzer flicker you. I expected you to be an asshole, and I was right.” It’s not one of my finer moments on the curse word front, but whatever. I make my point clear when I empty my entire glass of water—lemon wedge and all—right into John’s astonished face.

  There are a few noisy gasps from the people at tables around us, but I ignore them as I scoop up my purse and stalk away from the table.

  When I reach the front door, I let out a true curse, mumbled under my breath. John drove us. I don’t know why I gave in and let him pull that dick move on me. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a getaway car in the parking lot. I rush through the double doors and out into the night. I don’t let my heels trip me up. I walk fast, punishingly fast. I swing my arms too, for momentum. I don’t care if I look stupid. I can’t look any stupider than I felt sitting there at the table, across from a guy who just wants to bang me so he can add me to his wall of trophies. If I even make the cut. I’m not blonde, and my boobs aren’t anywhere near the D scale, so yeah. No trophy for me.

  I walk hard until my hips ache from my long strides and punishing pace. I don’t stop until I find an alley I can tuck myself neatly into, out of sight. It’s only then that I take out my cell and call a cab.

  As I wait for it, I tell myself I’m not crying. There’s freaking dust in the air tonight. In this alley. That’s it. The alley is freaking dusty, and the contacts I’m not wearing because I don’t wear contacts are bothering me.

  Freaking fiddlestacking contacts anyway.

  CHAPTER 11

  John

  I literally have no idea what happened last night, but I still have to go to work today. Obviously, I said the wrong thing. Maybe early pioneer adventure books are really offensive. I mean, some of them were pretty graphic and brutal. I didn’t read the books because I agreed with what happened. I do know a lot of other people who enjoy Westerns, though. It doesn’t make me a monster. I’m a bit of a history nerd. I took as many history classes as I could in college for my electives. I’ve always enjoyed it. I think it’s the only way anyone can learn from their mistakes, and it’s fascinating to see how people lived before modern technology.

  I was just trying to make conversation. I thought maybe Cassie might enjoy reading. As far as I know, it’s something lots of people like to do, and it’s not a crime. I was nervous. I’d just had a door slammed into my face. Maybe my concussed brain wasn’t working properly.

  I can’t figure out what else I did wrong. Not even after the very cold, very lemony, dousing of reality that she gave me.

  Even after a night of stewing over it, I still have no idea what exactly I did wrong. It makes sense, seeing as I’m generally useless when it comes to anything romance related.

  I slink into the office just before eight. It probably makes me a coward, but I’m glad Cassie’s door is closed. The light is on underneath, so I can see she’s here. If she wants to pretend as if nothing happened, I’m good with that. Given that her parents work here, I’d very much like for them not to find out anything about what went down between the hours of five and nine last night.

  So what if they were the four most humiliating hours of my life?

  Cassie doesn’t normally leave the office for lunch, but today it’s clear she needs a breather. Just before twelve, I hear her and a few others walking down the hall, talking about the new Vietnamese place down the block. The sound of her voice sends shivers racing down my spine. Cold sweat beads on my skin. My balls are practically screaming at me. I’m not sure why, because after the failed session in my office—a spot I’ve been purposely ignoring all morning—and the failed dinner last night, I went home, had a cold shower, and dealt with my problem myself. With my hand.

  Clearly, my dick isn’t satisfied. It’s been throbbing in time with my heartbeat all morning. I need to do something. I don’t just want to get laid. My dick might be telling me that’s not true, but I know it’s not all that’s going on here. Cassie isn’t just beautiful. She’s smart. Funny. She can hold her own in every situation—poop and pickles included. She’s driven. She’s talented. I feel like under other circumstances, ones in which I’m not involved, she’d be a truly kind, warm-hearted person. I got a taste of that when she accidentally slammed the door in my face.

  I want that back. The nice Cassie. The Cassie who let me take her out to dinner. I’d like to have dinner with her again. Minus the water getting thrown in my face. I’d like her to actually stay long enough to eat something. I’d like to do more than that, something that involves my office and a condom this time, or my house and a condom, or her house and a condom, or my car and a condom, or freaking anywhere and a condom, but I’m not going to get ahead of myself. Thinking about that only makes my manhood hurt even worse, and it currently feels like I just slapped it in a mousetrap.

  After Cassie leaves, I grab my car keys and slip out of the office. A quick trip to the grocery store and a stop at a dollar store, and I’m back. The office is pretty quiet, and I’m relieved to find that Cassie is still out. Her office is empty. I creep in stealthily and set my gift on her desk. She’ll either laugh about it or come to my office breathing fire. Either way, I have no doubt she’ll come to talk to me.

  I sneak back to my office, fire up my laptop, and force myself to work on emails. It’s hard, given my brain currently still has very little blood flow, thanks to my unhappy family jewels, and the fact that I’m totally distracted.

  I break my own rule and stare at the spot on my desk, where I touched Cassie. It makes me play the whole thing over in my head like a really good porno, which isn’t helping the blood flow matter.

  The sound of
laughter and voices carries down the hall. I sit up a little straighter, forcing myself back to typing something. Anything. Even if it’s gibberish, I just want to look like I’m busy. I don’t have to wait long.

  Hurried steps resound in the hall, and then Cassie storms into my office, shutting the door behind her. Much like yesterday, minus the sexual energy. At least, I think it’s minus the sexual energy. Her eyes are blazing, and her cheeks are flushed pink, so it’s hard to be sure.

  “What the hell is this?” She holds up the pickle jar with the red ribbon and huge bow tied around the lid.

  I barely manage to suppress a smile. She’s majorly pissed off. Breathing hard. Throat bobbing with forced swallows. Grinding her teeth so hard, her jaw clenches. She looked like that last night, right before she doused me with water. I could use a second dousing. My cock needs to cool the hell off. Is there anything sexier than Cassie pissed off and holding a jar of pickles? I guess if she was naked, pissed off, and holding a jar of pickles, then yes, that would be hotter.

  Great. Now I’m imagining her naked.

  “Answer me! What is this? Is this your idea of a joke?” she bristles.

  Finally, she sets the heavy pickle jar down on the corner of my desk. It’s an industrial-sized jar—those huge, eight-gallon jars. I got the biggest one I could find. The pickles inside are huge. Epically huge. There will be no chance in hell of being able to flush those bad boys down anything.

  “No.” I push back from my desk. At least she didn’t launch the jar at me. I didn’t think about her using it as a weapon, but it will be a real disaster if she did. Death by pickles. It’s not the way I want to go out.

  “Then, why? Why would you do that? It’s not funny. Do you know how mortifying the whole experience was?” She looks truly dismayed now, her anger bleeding away.