Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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"I'M HERE," I ANNOUNCE MY presence as I tentatively push the door open. It's not locked, which irritates me. Even if Lauren has been busy playing the doting host, I don't like that she's left it unlocked. Then again, maybe she was hoping Mr. Griffin would leave as quickly as he arrived.
Something tells me he isn't planning on going anywhere, anytime soon. He's way too stubborn, like me.
My attention snags on Lauren, who's perched on the barstool in our kitchen, sporting the avocado Oodie I gifted her for Christmas. She seems relaxed, considering the circumstances. "We're thrilled to see you," she says without preamble, then glances over to the couch. Our apartment is open plan, so I spot the dark figure sprawled out on their stomach, face half-buried in one of my cushions, almost immediately. "Aren't we, Mr. Griffin?"
Soft snoring fills the air.
Unbelievable.
"He's asleep already? Wasn't he up and talking two minutes ago?"
"Define up. And a lot can happen in two minutes, girl."
If that isn't the biggest double entendre I've ever heard, I don't know what is.
I shake my head, plopping myself down on the barstool beside her and dropping my keys and phone on the bench.
"When he heard your car pull in, he conked out," she tells me, brown eyes suddenly glittering with renewed hope and excitement. It's a foreign look for her, at least when we're discussing Mr. Griffin. "It was kind of sweet, actually. I think he cares about you, Summer. Like, really cares about you."
I wrinkle my nose. "Um, I highly doubt that."
"He kept . . ." She hesitates, grinning impishly. "Nah. Not my place. Anyway, onto more pressing matters, why the hell didn't you tell Zac and me that Mr. Griffin"—she whispers, like she's worried he might actually overhear—"is literally sex on a stick? You left that part out on purpose, didn't you? How have you not fucked him already? No wonder you struggled to be his assistant. I would, too. I don't know how anyone gets any work done in that office."
I stare at her, speechless, because no. Lauren couldn't be more wrong. My skin flushes out of anger. At least, that's what I tell myself.
I go to open my mouth and explain that to her, feeling my hackles rise, but she beats me to it. "Those questions were all rhetorical. Chill." She flounces off, her fluffy slides scuffing on the hardwood floor. "Now that you're here, I'm going to bed. I'll leave you to . . . wake the beast."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I give a small frown.
A part of me wants to beg her to stay out here—to not leave me alone with him—but I know that's hardly fair. She's been babysitting Mr. Griffin for an hour already. She deserves a freaking Roommate of the Year award for that alone.
