Page 7 of Coming for Her Grumpy Boss

He slides them back with one finger. “These are only necessary for unobservant morons.”

“Nonsense. They’re all the rage with the C-suite crowd.”

A muscle jumps in his cheek. “Clause twelve-b.”

“Force majeure. Pandemic, God, acts of Santa,” I say. “Supplier obligations prorate; we renegotiate in good faith within thirty days.”

His pen stops clicking. “Fourteen?”

“Termination. Cause, convenience, cure period—seven business days. You just need to initial the revision on page nine because legal suggested ten and you hate double digits.”

He lifts a brow. “Hate is a strong word.”

“So is stall.” I pull a gold pen from my blazer. “Would a festive writing instrument help?”

He eyes it. “That pen is obnoxious.”

“You take that back. My boss gave this to me on my one-year anniversary with the company. It’s engraved.”

His eyes zero in on the pen, then raise to my face. “Is that seriously a thing we do here?”

I shrug. “It’s a thing Human Resources does.”

“Dumb. I could buy a better gift. Had I known you required a work anniversary gift, I would have been more thoughtful.”

“Gifts are never a requirement. That’s the point.” I sigh. “Sign and I’ll save the CFO from yet another thrilling walkthrough of math we’ve both already triple-checked.”

“Bribery.”

“Incentive.” I lean in, lower my voice. “What do you want for your cooperation?”

“Careful,” he says, but his mouth is definitely thinking about being a smile. “What do I get?”

“Five minutes of silence where I don’t say ‘for your convenience.’”

“Impossible.”

“Fine. Three minutes and I’ll stop reorganizing your snack drawer by rainbow order.”

He studies me like I’m a puzzle he likes pretending he can’t solve. “Timer?”

I lift my phone and show him a meeting block labeled SIGN THE THING. “We have thirteen minutes left.”

He taps the tablet screen, skims, and then—of course—glances up. “You added a holiday co-marketing clause.”

“Two social posts, one in-store tasting, a tree-lighting tie-in,” I say. “Exposure both ways. Don’t be grumpy; you like win-wins.”

“I like accuracy,” he says.

“Which is why I brought receipts. Annex C.” I flip, he follows, and his pen hovers.

He exhales. “You’re relentless.”

“Duty-bound.”

He goes quiet, the room filling with the soft hum of the air vent and the citrus-and-hops thing that always clings to him. He makes a note on a sticky note, but the ink skips. He shakes the pen.

He eyes my ridiculous gold pen. “It writes terribly.”