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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ZAC CLOSES THEIR BEDROOM DOOR and a wave of silence crashes over us.
So apparently I did share Max's first name with them. Or maybe they just like to cyber-stalk him in their downtime. Either way, Zac's all too aware of the choice I've made—going from declaring my boss my sworn enemy (and rightly so after what happened on my birthday) to straddling his lap half a year later.
How the mighty have fallen.
I study Max's sharp, Adonis-like features, and search for the man I saw that day—cruel, inconsiderate, heartless. The man who made me lock myself in a cubicle and cry until there was literal snot dripping from my nose. But that version of him, that detached facade he always hides behind, is nowhere to be found. I only glimpse amusement, flickering across his expression, and a haze of lust, clouding his irises. That grumpy, hard exterior has softened so much that I barely even recognise him anymore, and it's unnerving as hell.
He grips my waist, like he's trying to prevent me from wriggling off him. He had no time for me that day, and yet, here he is, months later, in no hurry to leave. Quite frankly, it kind of pisses me off.
I don't understand any of this. How I've gone from hating him on a visceral, soul-deep level to wanting him more than I think I've ever wanted anything before.
Neither of us says anything for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds in reality. And he doesn't remove his hands. They're still planted on my hips. The heat of his palms sears through the thin material of my dress and into my skin.
"I'm assuming that was your roommate," he murmurs eventually, his Adam's apple bobbing. "The one who came up with . . . my nickname."
"Yeah, sorry. That—all of it—was, uh, unfortunate."
"All of it?" he repeats, and I inhale a slow lungful of air. I know what he's asking—what he's referring to—and it catches me off guard. Worse, I don't know how to respond, because I'm still struggling to sort through the onslaught of emotions I'm feeling.
Gingerly, I slide off his lap, stand up, and put some much-needed distance between us—what I should've done ten minutes ago. He flexes his fingers, like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with them now, before he rests them on his suit-clad thighs.
"You okay?" is his next question, and I hate the way my pulse spikes.
Instead of pressing me to give him the answers I clearly don't have, Max switches gears. He's checking to see that I'm handling everything fine—the fact that he's just fucked me with those fingers I can't help but stare at—and it's sweet. The opposite of what I expected.
"I'm okay," I tell him, resisting the urge to fidget. My gaze climbs to his. "Are you?"
"Me? I'm great," he says, and his eyes have gone soft and deep. "Just tired."
