Page 8 of Falling for Her Grumpy Boss

I drag a hand over the back of my neck, the heat from the room still clinging to my skin. “Look, if a woman thinks I’m about to settle down, they should listen better.”

Jeremy’s mouth curves slightly, but there’s no humor in it. “Or you should stop picking women who see you as a challenge.”

“I don’t pick them for that.”

“No.” His gaze holds mine. “You pick them because they don’t challenge you.”

That hits.

I go still, the words settling in deeper than I want them to.

Jeremy doesn’t push it. Just watches me for a second longer before reaching for his coffee again.

“Difference is,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “the right woman won’t ask you to change.”

I glance past him, back toward the doorway, where the noise from the living room filters in again, softer now, warmer.

“And what does she do?” I ask.

His gaze follows mine, landing on his wife. “She makes you want to.” His expression softens.

I don’t answer.

I just pick up my coffee again, the heat grounding, familiar, and take a slow sip while something unsettled shifts low in my chest.

That’s not something I’ve ever wanted.

…Is it?

CHAPTER 2

Tess

The overhead lights bleach the room in a steady, colorless glow, flattening every surface into a dull sameness. A steady, dull pressure that makes it hard to tell whether time is moving or standing still. The office smells faintly of paper and toner, clean but stale, like nothing new has happened here in weeks. I sit behind my desk with a file open in front of me, pages neatly aligned, numbers checked twice, margins crisp. There’s nothing left to fix.

I flip the page anyway.

The columns don’t change. The projections don’t shift. Everything that needed doing has already been done, tied up and filed away with a precision that should feel satisfying. Instead, it leaves me restless, my fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the desk before I force them still.

The filing cabinet to my right is full, every drawer neatly arranged with labeled tabs and clean dividers separating each section. The folders sit in precise order, aligned so everything is easy to find. Nothing is out of place, nothing left unfinished, and there’s a quiet sense of structure.

August isn’t even close to over, and I’m already staring at next spring’s plans as if there’s nothing left between now and then.

A soft breath slips out before I can stop it.

Last Friday flashes through my mind, sharp and bright in contrast to the gray quiet of today. Clara stood in the doorway of the office, sunlight catching in her hair, her entire focus wrapped around the small bundle in her arms. The tension that used to live in her shoulders was gone, replaced by an ease that showed in the way she shifted the baby without thinking, adjusting her hold with quiet confidence. When someone spoke to her, she didn’t rush to answer or glance toward her desk out of habit. She stayed where she was, her attention anchored fully on the small life in her arms, and everything about her made it clear that she wasn’t pulled in two directions anymore.

I remember the way she shifted baby Lily against her chest, instinctive, easy, like her body had always known how to do it. The soft curve of her smile when someone leaned in for a closer look, the quiet pride in her eyes that had nothing to do with the company or the numbers or the weight she used to carry on her shoulders.

The baby had blinked up at me, tiny fingers curling and uncurling in the air, and something in my chest had tightened before I could name it.

When I hesitated a second too long, Clara laughed softly and stepped closer, placing Lily in my arms. The baby’s warmth settled against my chest immediately, impossibly small and impossibly alive, carrying that soft, sweet scent babies seemed to have no matter where they’d been or who held them. I adjusted my grip instinctively, terrified of doing it wrong and already a little in love with the tiny life blinking up at me with wide, unfocused eyes.

Something inside me melted before I could stop it.

Holding her ignited an ache low in my chest, a quiet wondering I usually kept buried beneath schedules and spreadsheets and practical decisions. Whether someday I’d hold my own child like this. Whether I’d ever look at someone the way Clara looked at Lily.

And sitting here now, staring at spreadsheets that don’t need me, I can’t help wondering how long it will be before Clara comes back.