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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A SHOCKED LAUGH BUBBLES IN mythroat. I'm not sure, exactly, what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn't . . . that. I stare back at my ex-boss, uncomprehending. "What? You want me to go back to being your PA?"
Mr. Griffin shakes his head, a slight crease appearing in his forehead. "I want you to work for the company properly this time, in a role that reflects your full capabilities."
Already, I'm intrigued. And confused.
Before I can think to censor myself, I blurt out, "Is this you admitting I was wasting my talents before?"
He glowers at me, the tiny wrinkles between his eyebrows deepening. The lines that slash through his forehead are so harsh and unforgiving now I worry they'll be carved there permanently. Other than that, he flat-out ignores my verbal jab. Good for him. "I want to offer you a position in the social media department," he keeps talking, and I can't help it, my ears perk up. "That's your passion, right? I was thinking you could be Elevated's new content specialist."
I almost laugh again until I realise he's being serious. Of course he is. His business mask is on—cold, hard granite—arranged perfectly on his face and concealing anything he might be feeling underneath. I should've expected nothing less. Mr. Griffin doesn't crack jokes. His sense of humour is about as developed as my breasts were in high school. In other words, non-existent.
He continues, undeterred, "You'll have a team of people working with you. I can even get you your own office, like Krystal." That low, deceptively soft tone is back in his voice, and my pulse stutters a little before resuming its normal, steady rhythm. "Whatever you want, name it, and it's yours."
By this point, my mouth is hanging open. I close it, swallowing hard. The air has dried it out, I convince myself. It has nothing to do with the way my ex-boss is looking up at me: intense, hopeful.
"I don't get it," I admit, still processing. Futilely, I try to wrap my head around everything—his presence, his unexpected proposal, the desperation in which he delivers it. Saying I'm taken aback by this recent development is the understatement of the century. I choose to drop some of the blasé attitude, just a smidgeon. "I told you to get fucked, Max. I was horrible, like, truly, a nightmare. You were kind not to sic HR on me. I deserved it."
The man says nothing.
Huh.
He agrees.
So, then, why didn't he?
Why is he here, offering me a coveted, and not entirely earned, position at his billion-dollar company?
I wade through more questions I'm incapable of answering.
"Why are you trying to hire me—scratch that—promote me? I'm a liability." I do my best not to fidget as he watches me, those grey eyes assessing me coolly. "Plus, my colleagues have probably lost all respect for me. Who's to say they'd even work with me again?"
