Wild Love: Chapter 25

It’s Monday. Ryan is gone. Willa is gone. And I’m obsessing over stupid, bitchy Ford and how to act around him now that I know he wants to kiss me while also coming to terms with the fact that I want to be kissed by stupid, bitchy Ford.

My period is also due to start any day now, and I feel like my insides are trying to carve their way out of my body by way of my lower abdomen.

Basically, my headspace is trash, and my body is a traitor.

So, as any mature young professional would do, I resort to taking it out on my boss and harassing him via email. I tell myself it’s allowed because he forced my hand by refusing to make eye contact with me from across the room.

Good morning, Mr. Grant Jr.,

I’ve officially heard back from three experts who can come to complete the recording booth. Their prices and timelines are broken down in the attached spreadsheet with my completely unprofessional opinions noted in the margins. Truly, one guy cannot be trusted. He requested that I order him chicken wings for lunch every single day (which, fair, I’d love that too), but only the drumsticks, not the wings. It’s alarming because the wings are clearly the superior piece of meat. To me, that proves he lacks any modicum of taste, and as such, I wouldn’t let him near this place, because it’s finally looking pretty great.

I hope you had an incredibly safe Sunday.

Making eye contact with you from across the room,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager at Safety First Records

When I hear the email ping from across the office, I try not to smirk. Instead, I pick up my agenda and doodle a dick on Monday, so it looks like I’m keeping track of something particularly important.

The sound of his fingers on the keyboard filters back to me, and when I glance up, his eyes are focused on his screen. I push the dick out of my way and decide to work on responding to the info email account for Rose Hill Records—most of which is barf-worthy fan mail for the World’s Hottest Billionaire.

Good morning, Rosalie,

I appreciate your feedback on these options. I took a moment to scan the attached sheet. I believe that as my safety mascot and business manager, you are more than capable of selecting the best candidate for this job. Surely, the drumstick guy is a no—absolutely cannot be trusted.

Have a happy day!

Ford Grant CEO and Producer at Safety First Records

P.S. I can see the dick you drew in your planner from here.

My eyes flit to where the planner has moved up toward the corner of my desk. Ford watches me openly now. I suppose he can see it with his height advantage. Or possibly because I made it extra bold by outlining it more than once. I shrug, turn the spiral-bound book toward me, add a sizable splash of cum erupting from the head, and hold it up to Ford.

He stares back at me blankly now, but I swear I see his cheek twitch.

I toss him a thumbs-up and get back to my email.

Mr. Ford Grant Jr.,

I’m so glad you enjoy my art. I call this piece “My Boss is a ,” ink on paper, by Rosalie Belmont.

Each droplet of the added jizz stream represents the lies that he tells himself.

Yours truly,

Rosalie Belmont

Dick Manager

He snorts a laugh, one abruptly covered by a hand and dropped eye contact. We fall back into the tapping of our keyboards and fuck my life—today could not be more awkward if I tried. I catch myself looking at Ford, remembering him as a teenager.

Where I became sure of myself quickly, he didn’t. Physically, he matured slowly, while at sixteen I could have passed for twenty-two. Emotionally, he seemed removed and often fumbled his words around people. As the son of a famous rock star, I think he could have gone one of two ways: life of the party or untrusting and withdrawn.

He was the latter. He learned how to protect himself by using his words and facial expressions as armor. It made him come off cool, maybe even superior, but I see now it was a display of discomfort.

Where I was popular and outgoing, he was nervous.

It’s with that revelation in mind that I get to the inbox and sift through different emails. One is a request for his presence at a fundraiser and silent auction for a devastating wildfire in Emerald Lake.

Mr. Ford Grant Jr.,

Would you like to attend this event in Emerald Lake in just under two weeks’ time? I believe being able to use your name for marketing purposes would be very charitable indeed. Who doesn’t want to attend a stuffy event with the World’s Okayest Billionaire?

Respectfully,

Rosalie Belmont

Dick Manager

I consider changing my job title again, but Dick Manager has such a wonderful ring to it, and the fact he didn’t respond about my art has me irrationally annoyed with him. Even though he’s working. And I’m supposed to be working. And I know my hormones are taking me on a roller coaster ride right now.

So, I send it the way it is.

Dearest Dick Manager,

Thank you for passing this along. You can RSVP for me and a plus one.

Have a happy day!

Ford Grant

CEO and Head Dick at Rose Hill Records

I blink at the screen and read the simple email over and over again. Searching for a hidden detail. Something I missed. Because who would he take to the event as a plus one?

I scowl at him, but he goes on working, blissfully unaffected. He gets up, puts a record on, and sits back at his desk. Looking carefree while I stew.

It’s possible he’d take Cora.

That could be cute. But then I consider how intensely private he is and decide he wouldn’t expose her that way. His parents were extremely careful with him and Willa, and I suspect he’d be just as protective of Cora.

I start to thoroughly mull over the question. I have no right to care. Even so, he kissed me. And now he’s ignoring me like nothing happened because he’s feeling guilty. I also realize he hasn’t once answered my question about him being single.

It never bugged me before, but now it does. What if I have to sit by while he dates some hot model who wouldn’t be caught dead eating a full bag of chips by herself on a rickety dock?

She’d probably be nice too—she’d probably be hard working and smart, with a thousand degrees, in addition to being extremely hot. And that just makes me hate his imaginary girlfriend even more.

I find myself wondering if he’d have kissed me like that if—no, I know him better than that. He wouldn’t.

I’m glaring at him now. Arms crossed. Cramps raging. Eyes like lasers.

My email pings.

Rosie,

Are you joining the dark side? I feel that if you practiced enough, you could probably Force grip me and choke me out with that scowl.

Have a happy day!

Sith Lord Ford Grant

CEO and Head Dick at Rose Hill Records

I see the email, but I don’t respond. I cross my legs and lean back, foot bobbing, as I pretend to act casual.

“Who is your plus one?”

I thought I’d sound curious and unaffected. That’s how the sentence sounded in my head. But I sound petty and accusatory, and he must hear it because his head snaps up in my direction. His slightly slanted green eyes make my chest ache, while the blush on his cheeks makes me want to trail my fingernails through his rugged stubble again. His cable-knit sweater with a plaid collar sticking out from underneath is casual-mountain-man sexy, not at all stuffy billionaire, and I can’t even deny how fucking hot he is—which annoys me even more.

He took me from oblivious to acutely aware and then he left me hanging. So right now, I hate Ford Grant more than ever.

“What?” He appears suitably confused.

“To that event in Emerald Lake? Who are you taking?” He blinks, and I stare. The music in the background is the only sound, and the air between us bubbles like boiling water on a stove.

Then he stands, without a word, and rounds his desk. All swagger as he approaches me.

He has an obnoxiously smug expression on his face when he props his hip against my desk and says, “You.”

My foot stops bobbing. He says the word so plainly that it almost doesn’t make sense to me. Doesn’t quite register.

His brow furrows and his eyes drop to my lips. It fucking kills me when he looks at my lips now because I know what he can do to them—to me.

“Me?”

His head tilts, and his gaze moves over my entire body. Like he’s putting the puzzle together, reading my body language. Picking up every little clue.

This time when he talks, his voice is earnest, not biting. “Yeah, Rosie. I can’t go to an event like that without my Dick Manager.”

I bite at my bottom lip. My eyes sting a little, and I know it’s not him or his words. I know my emotions are running amok because I’m one day away from my period starting, according to my tracker. I know he said nothing especially sweet, but the relief I feel is strong enough that I need space.

“Cool.” I nod firmly, stand up, and head toward the door like the emotional coward I am. “Forgot my…” I forgot absolutely nothing, but I’m looking for an escape. “Sweater at my place. Be right back.”

His brow furrows again as I turn and walk through the sliding barn doors. The ones that are wide open, because it’s warm out today. I can hear the concern in his voice when he says, “I’ll go grab lunch. Want anything?”

“Sure, whatever looks good,” I call back, hustling off the front deck.

I take my time walking back to my place. I even sit at the end of the dock for a while, just simmering in all my feelings. Then I take a Midol, grab a completely unnecessary sweater, and head back to the office. Primed and ready for a fight.

But when I get back to my desk, there’s no Ford to be seen. However, there is a tin takeout container of chicken wings on my desk with an array of sauces on the side.

No drumsticks. All wings.