SNOWED IN WITH MY GROUCHY BOSS
What’s worse than getting snowed in on Christmas with the Dread Lord, a.k.a. my awful and (annoyingly) sexy boss? When he walks in on me enjoying “me” time in the hot tub… whilst I’m nekkid.
CHAPTER 1
The mountain mansion is straight out of a luxury magazine or a pretty Christmas snow globe. Candles glow in the windows. The slate roof looks like it was dusted with sugar. I’d feel like I’m in a winter wonderland if an icy wind wasn’t chasing me up the drive.
Snow is piled up on either side of the driveway in giant white drifts taller than me, and the wind is driving more fluffy white flakes into my face. Only a madman would be out in this weather. Or a poor, put-upon employee of Mr. Lord, who is basically The Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge rolled into one.
Dear Santa, please keep me from dying on this hill.
The drive is made of old-fashioned cobblestones, which is quaint and all, but a nightmare to walk on in high-heeled boots. I would’ve dressed differently if I’d known my boss was going to drag me to the North Pole on the night before Christmas Eve.
I’m going to kill him. All this snow would hide his body until at least May.
The heel of my boot hits a patch of black ice, and I go flying. My body goes one way, my suitcase another, while I squawk like a chicken, bracing for impact.
Out of nowhere, two strong arms catch and lift me upright. For a second, my boss holds me against his powerful body. His body heat seeps into me, and I think,Maybe he’s not the Iceman; maybe he is human,but then he opens his mouth.
“Careful,” he clips in his posh British accent. “If you fall and break a leg, you’ll be useless at work. And then where will we be?”
“Home for Christmas,” I mutter. “Where we should be.”
He sets me on my feet, and I turn in time to see the surprised flick of his dark eyebrows. He’s used to my snark. We snipe at each other like an old married couple, but usually I try to act professional or, at least, tone down my crazy.
But tonight? Six p.m. on the Friday before a holiday weekend? All my fucks are gone.
I don’t feel bad because Piers Lord, a.k.a. the Dread Lord, gives as good as he gets.
“Home? In your tiny apartment with the broken radiator you’re always complaining about?” His British accent always makes him sound like he’s sneering. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but right now it’s clear: he’s mocking me. “Eating fruit cake and watching cat show competitions on your sad little telly?”
“That sounds perfect.” I glare up at him. He’s still holding me close, so I push at his chest to get some distance between us. He’s packing some serious muscle underneath his wool pea coat, and I fit perfectly in his arms, but I ignore the flush of heat between my legs.
If life were fair, my boss would have green, gangrenous skin and look like a troll to match his repulsive personality. But the Dread Lord is the result of several generations of wealthy people marrying hot people. His dad was a British tycoon, and his mom was a Miss World pageant winner turned Bollywood star. He was destined to win the hotness lottery.
It’s not easy working for a man who has the money of Midas and the face and body of a god. I’m careful not to look at him for too long, lest I get mesmerized by his pouty mouth and pointy cheekbones. After almost five years, you think I’d be used to it, but nope.
He cocks his head, and his silky black hair falls across his obnoxiously perfect brow. “But then you wouldn’t be here. With me.”
“That sounds even better.”
“You’d miss this lovely weather.” He sniffs at the dark gray sky, and I can’t tell if he’s joking. Sometimes I think he prefers it when the world is gloomy, covered in a shroud.
He’s still holding me close, so close I’m warmed by the heat of his body. If I close my eyes, I could pretend that my fantasies are coming true.
Because, let’s face it, I fantasize about my hot boss all the time. It’s a problem.
The hardest part of this job isn’t dealing with the Dread Lord’s razor-sharp tongue or demanding standards. I don’t mind those; I love a challenge. Marty used to say I was the only one who could handle Piers. I’ve lasted longer than all his other assistants combined.
No, the hardest part is how much I’m attracted to him. Not just his gorgeous face and powerful body, but his brilliant mind, his cutting wit. It’s not fair that I’m into someone so mean, but… I like him best when he’s mean.
Dear Santa,
Help.
Right now, my body can’t help but respond to his. But I am not going to give in to my ridiculous attraction and enjoy the moment. I refuse! It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man, or anyone, and my body is hungry for human touch.
“I don’t understand why we needed to come all the way to the North Pole for a work day,” I mutter.
