Obsessed with My Grumpy Boss, page 1
OBSESSED WITH MY GRUMPY BOSS
SUGAR & SILK
CASSIE CASSELL
Copyright © 2024 by Cassie Cassell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Cassie Cassell
SUMMARY
Hazel
I hate my boss. Archer Cromwell is filthy rich and a sexy devil with an ego to match.
That’s why I keep a daily journal about this crazy attraction I feel for him, to help me maintain my sanity. I need an outlet for my deliciously forbidden fantasies.
When he takes advantage of my mistake to blackmail me into a fake date, I agree. I need this job—and I need to remember that this selfish, despicable man is off-limits. But easier said than done…
Archer
When fumbling through my assistant’s drawer searching for a work phone, I don’t expect to find her naughty journal.
I shouldn’t keep reading it, but I can’t stop.
I learn that she passionately disagrees with my leadership style, and to my surprise... she imagines what I’d feel like between her legs.
She’s much younger than me, and I don’t do relationships.
But Hazel Dillon makes me want to break all the rules.
1
Hazel
I hate my boss.
Sometimes, I fantasize about slamming him hard against the wall right after he barks one of his insane orders at me. In my head, it goes seamlessly, even though I'm 5'4” and he's over a foot taller. He's also a wall of muscles, nicely tucked under a top-dollar Italian designer suit.
But back to my fantasy—I put him in his place, splaying my hands over his chest, pressing my palm against his heart, and feeling it beat its way out of his impressive chest. A small smile forms on my lips, the pang of triumph finally running down my spine. Oh, yes. After a year of working for him and putting up with all kinds of bullshit, things are coming to a head.
My contempt. My frustration. My… crazy hot arousal.
He groans, obviously shocked I have the nerve to put a man like him in his place. But it's been a long time coming… So I give him a once over and press my body against him, tipping up my chin to get a glimpse of his dark blue eyes. Eyes that almost darken to black when he's upset. Which is often. The man is miserable.
Sexy as hell and miserable like the devil. What an unfortunate combination.
I wish I could—
"Hazel.” His deep voice sends prickles to every nerve in my body. He pops his head out of his office and steps toward my desk.
I immediately drop my pen and close my journal. I shove it inside the drawer, the second one from the top, and raise my gaze to his. When my coworker, Emma, recommended journaling to relieve stress, I don't know if she meant it like this—at work, when I'm on the clock. I also may have omitted to tell her I'm attracted to my boss, but if I share my obsession with her, the whole office will know the next day.
"Yes?"
He narrows his eyes and cocks his head to the side. "My office.”
I stand, smoothing my hands over my sensible black blouse and pants ensemble. "Of course."
I make my way to his office, counting the ten steps to his heavy, dark wood open double doors. As usual, the view of downtown Dallas greets me, as does the skyline displayed on the glass wall behind the man sitting at the desk.
His space represents him well: austere, sophisticated, and lacking in emotional and personal touches. A few photographs stack the shelves, mostly of him with influential people and the awards he's won in the travel industry. A set of leather sofas, a coffee table, and a wet bar occupy the large right corner of the space.
He clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him.
The man. The devil himself. Archer Cromwell.
The forty-two-year-old CEO and founder of Cromwell Travel.
"Let's go over your daily mistake," he says sarcastically. "I asked you to send flowers to Allegra."
I swallow the lump in my throat. Shit. He's right. I'm highly efficient at organizing his professional life. I've "accidentally" gotten dates or places wrong for the past few weeks at least once a week. Call it my way of passive-aggressively telling him I'm fed up with keeping tabs on his romantic shenanigans.
"Yes, done. This morning." I somehow pull off an innocent expression. I should have joined the drama club in high school.
He tilts his head to the side, then shoves his fingers through his dark brown hair. The style makes his handsome face striking, and his evil stance is alluring. "Really? Because Allegra called me and said the card was addressed to Payton."
"Oh." I feign surprise and touch my lips. "I'm terribly sorry."
"As you know, Payton was the woman I dated before Allegra. So now Allegra is mad and won't see me."
I shrug. A small measure of female pride travels down my spine. "Isn't the strong bond you two share enough? I mean, you've dated her for three weeks. Isn't she impressed?"
He clenches his jaw and stares at me in silence for a moment.
I square my shoulders, and a wave of concern washes through me. Is he reading between the lines? I clear my throat. No, he can't. He's too self-involved to think about anyone but himself. Besides, I need this job. The incredible health insurance covers my dad's many health problems. Also, this is the reason I don't quit, especially after Dad's last hip replacement. That shit adds up.
"Hazel, are you fucking with me?" he asks at last.
I widen my eyes. I wish I could fuck him. You know how some people say they can drink you under the table? I'm pretty sure Archer could fuck me under the table, or on the bed, or over his desk. A shiver travels through me. "I wouldn't dare." Heat fills my cheeks, and I glance down like he's discovered my secret. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cromwell. Really, I am."
He squints his eyes, giving me a once over as if he's wondering if arguing with me will be worth his time. "Let's go over my schedule."
Mid-eye-roll, I stop. I can't be obvious. I hate the man, sure, but I also need this job. I was lucky to get it—his longtime assistant retired and moved out of the country, and he had a revolving door of temps until I showed up. Of course, he never told me any of this—I heard courtesy of Emma.
"You have that dinner at Malcolm's in a couple of days," I say, remembering how excited he got when he told me to pencil that in digitally.
He rocks back in his chair, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. "Shit, that's right."
This type of event I won't fuck up. I know better than to mess with his professional stuff. Regardless of his shitty people management skills, he’s excellent at his job.
"This isn't an overt business meeting; it's a networking situation. I asked Malcolm Hayes to invite me to this party because I heard that Brooks Harrington, the founder of Sugar & Silk, would be there. I need to pitch my collab idea to Brooks. The man is hard to get a hold of."
I nod. He's been making calls, but this Brooks guy is busy. The thought of someone snubbing Archer gives me a twisted sense of joy. I hear my thoughts and bite the inside of my cheek. Shit, I may need therapy. Maybe the journaling isn't enough to heal these uncontrollable emotions I nurture toward my boss.
"I can't show up alone. Everyone else has dates. It'll be too obvious if I'm there by myself."
"Well, you have two days." That's longer than most of your relationships, I add inwardly, biting my tongue.
He sighs. "I don't have time for this bullshit. That's why I’ve been dating Allegra for the past three weeks. So we'd have some rapport, and she could attend it with me."
Aren't you the last romantic? I bite my tongue again.
"And you ruined it," he says, his eyes as cold as a frozen lake.
"But Mr. Cromwell… I accidentally wrote the name of the woman you dated four weeks ago. A week before Allegra came into place."
"Exactly. You made a mistake. You're lucky to still have a job."
I shift in the chair. Now, desire is gone, and I wish I could throw this man in a snake-infested lake. Damn it, though, he's right—I'm lucky to have this job. But he can't keep weaponizing my needing a job to make me feel like shit.
"Which is why you'll go with me," he says, bringing me back to reality.
I tilt my head to the side, ensuring I heard him correctly. "With you?"
"As my date. Think of it as a regular business meeting. Only at night."
As his date? I swallow the sharp knives in my throat. "What do you mean?"
Since I started working for him, I’ve attended countless events and t
He shrugs. "You'll go as Hazel Dillon. My date."
"What if Brooks finds out later that I'm your assistant?" After all, I'll contact his assistant and so forth if he lands the collaboration. Though I doubt a guy like Brooks would care about the fine print of our relationship. Something tells me the man who founded Sugar & Silk has different morals than the rest of us.
"Oh, that's easy. We didn't work out as a couple, but a position was available at my company, and you took it."
I set the iPad aside. His lack of regard for anyone but himself never ceases to surprise me. "What if I have plans on Saturday night?"
"Cancel them. I'm your priority."
He's my priority. A wave of frustration rolls over me. I knew having a life outside work would be challenging, but for him not to show zero appreciation like that… I shake my head. "What if my boyfriend doesn't like the idea of me going out with my boss and pretending to be his date?"
He chuckles. "What boyfriend?"
The nerve! I upgrade my mental punishment from a snake-infested lake to a rough sea filled with white sharks—though I bet the bastard would feel right at home. He'd simply be visiting his family.
"If I had one, I'm sure he'd be appalled," I say, anger welling inside me. I want to grab my journal and throw it at his head. Asshole.
"If you had one, I'm sure he'd understand that you fucked up at work, and you're making up for it. Simple," he says, unfazed.
I suck in a breath. "Okay, fine."
He gives me the slightest wink and says in a voice as smooth as chocolate and as deadly as poison, "Good girl."
A current of lust travels through me. I cross my legs so tight that my thighs clench and my clit throbs in response. My underwear is wet, and my nipples tighten against the restraints of my no-underwire bra. Fuck.
Even though he’s fucked up, I still want him.
There's obviously a lot wrong with him… and, sadly, with me too.
2
Hazel
I hate my boss.
He's the worst. Why do I even feel the slightest attraction for him? That honestly says more about me than him. I mean, the guy is a filthy rich man-whore who can get away with murder. And every day, it becomes harder to keep my thoughts to myself.
The snarky ones, anyway.
The sexy ones won't ever make it past the dark corners of my mind.
But damn.
The idea of attending a dinner party with him sends thrills of excitement to my pussy. Obviously, this isn't anything but overtime. He'd never go romantically for someone like me. I'm not sophisticated or rich, and I have a big ass—the reason I favor blouses and suit jackets that hide my butt.
I'll have to leash all my fantasies not to let any hint of lust slip through the cracks.
If he knew I was into him, he'd laugh. And possibly crack a brutal joke, which would make the whole thing awkward. I can't lose this job. So, my only option is to attend this dinner party and come out unscathed.
I grab my journal and jot down the thoughts jumbling my mind.
If I close my eyes for a moment, I can imagine what it'd feel like… to have him caress my thigh under the table while others surround us. I'd look at him, and he'd give me a shameless wink. Of course, this would be highly inappropriate, but neither of us would care.
We've had too much alcohol to do the right thing.
He kisses my bare shoulder. The intimate kiss sends ripples of awareness down my spine, and goosebumps rise on my skin. I look at him, and he looks back at me. We share that moment, recognizing the desire in each other's eyes.
"I want to fuck you," he whispers in my ear, his voice low and growly.
I look around the table to ensure no one else hears us. "Me too."
He cocks his head in the direction of the restroom, and I blush.
Then, he—
"Hey, girl." Emma pops into my field of vision. She's wearing a cute purple skirt with a white blouse that works for her. She always accessorizes well and looks flawless.
I close the journal and slide it into the second drawer of my desk, which no one else except me ever opens. We have this floor all to ourselves, besides a couple of offices down the hallway—the CFOs and CMOs. But they're always busy, and their assistants keep it to themselves.
When I first started, I always hid the journal in my bag. Then it occurred to me: Why would a man-baby who doesn't even order his coffee look for things at my desk? The idea amuses me. To be on the safe side, though, I usually take my journal home on weekends.
I look at Emma. "What's up?"
She cocks her head to the door. "Let's go get some lunch."
I check the clock on my monitor. "It's ten to twelve."
"And?"
"And he may need me," I say, like a repressed helicopter mom afraid of letting a family member care for her newborn baby while she takes a shower. Yep. That's what my life has become.
Emma rolls her bright green eyes. "Can you hear yourself? You're talking like a hostage."
I feel like a hostage… a horny one. One that has no common sense or pride. "No, he asked me to work on some stuff."
She waves me off. It's easy for her. She works at the main reception in the lobby with two other girls. "Tell him you'll finish later. C'mon. My landlord asked me out, and I need someone to talk to."
I sigh, looking at the heavy doors to his office, which are closed as usual. He's probably busy. He's not a toddler. He won't notice if I'm gone for thirty minutes. I jolt down Be Right Back on a Post-It note and attach it to my monitor on the off chance someone else needs me. "Okay, fine."
I get up and follow Emma out to lunch with a coworker. I'm allowed, right? Especially after he said I was lucky to still have this job. Anger simmers inside me. I need food.
Besides, Emma's right.
I'm not a fucking hostage.
3
Archer
Where the hell is she?
I hate it when Hazel leaves without telling me where she's going. It's not even noon, and she's nowhere to be found. I wanted to ask her to grab lunch for me. I usually attend meetings during lunch, but otherwise, she'll order from my favorite places.
It's not like I'm asking for the world.
She's been screwing up my dates and love life for weeks. Always a mistake. Maybe she's too busy with her life and doesn't care about mine. I scowl.
A mistake. What I pay her, both in salary and generous benefits, she won't get anywhere else. I expect excellence, and she doesn't see that's the best for her. It must be an age thing.
Hazel is twenty-one. She's resourceful and efficient, though I wouldn't be caught dead saying those things too often. Maybe she's going through something, so she's acting all strange. I scratch my chin. What could it be?
I guess I don't know much about her personal life. It's easier that way.
My mom raised me after my father left us when I was three. She was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease when he decided to re-enter our lives seven years later. She was weak, and not just from her illness—she'd missed him even though he was a prick. So she accepted him back and made me do the same.
What for?
He hung around for two years until my mother died. Ensured he got her hefty inheritance before he shipped me off to live with my maternal grandmother and took off again. In those two years, I was weak, too. I left my guard down and got to know him—and what happened?
He disappeared.
When my mom died, I lost both my parents, but I gained valuable insight at twelve— don't let people get too close. There's no need.
So, why would I waste time delving deep with my assistant if I don't do so with dates? That wouldn't make sense.
I look at Hazel’s organized desk and see the Post-It note attached to the monitor, written in neon pink. Be right back.
She usually orders for me. I'm too busy to waste my time, and I hired her to handle all my needs.
A flutter crosses my chest. That sounds wrong. Shaking my head, I drum my fingers on the smooth surface of her desk. As always, besides the sleek oversized monitor and keyboard, there isn't much on it. She knows I like things neat.
