Mr. Grumpy Boss (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss #1) - Lindsey Hart Page 0,3

means when they talk about the biological clock. All of a sudden, my body is having crazy thoughts involving my boss—a boss who might be hot as sin but is seriously not nice. I’ve never had one sexual thought about him before. I might have noticed he’s gorgeous, but then, I have eyes. Right now, it’s like a switch has been flipped on all of a sudden, leaving me hot and shivery all over.

I swallow hard. Philippe’s throat bobs too. “I’m fine,” he says evenly, but he looks unguarded. This might be the most human moment I’ve ever shared with him.

“Okay.” I shove myself up to my feet, suddenly crazy eager to be out of there. I think my hormones are going through their own panic attack, and distance is the best thing to get it straightened out. Well, at least I hope so. Because thoughts about my boss and his lips have no bearing in my life unless he wants to kiss my butt, and no, I’m not serious about that either. It just sounds nice.

Not that kind of nice.

Jesus. I’m crazy.

“I’ll have the reports to you in an hour.”

I run out of the office as fast as I ran in. I shut the door behind me for extra privacy, and when I get back to my office, it’s empty. The drawer I told Cherry about is missing a cherry sucker. It was the last one left. Damn it. I slam the drawer shut.

Pulling up the report that I did over the weekend, I look it over. Everything seems fine to me. After an hour of research, I finally realize I forgot a zero on line fourteen. Jeez. Nothing like not allowing a person to be human here. I save the report and exit out of it.

Opening up my email, I blindly attach it, fumble in my desk for an orange sucker because it’s the next best thing, and fire it off.

I lean back in my chair and try to tell myself I’m not rattled, both about the panic attack that just went down and about my strange reaction back there in Philippe’s office.

“Shit!” My eyes fly open, and I nearly leap out of my chair.

I’m in such a hurry that I nearly fall out of the dang office chair. I scramble to bring up my sent emails. My orange sucker falls out of my mouth and lands in my lap. It sticks to the leg of my best pair of dress pants, but that’s the least of my worries.

Because I just realized I didn’t attach the report I fixed. Nope. There is no Data for Monthly Report attached.

But there is a Diary Therapy Thingy.

I attached the freaking diary I’ve been working on for the past two months. My diary.

My. Life. Is. Officially. Over.

CHAPTER 2

Philippe

An hour after yet another epic meltdown, I have my office door shut and locked with the lights turned down low to try and help me relax. My phone is off—both my office phone and my cell. So far, the non-communication, privacy, low-light thing has yet to help. My muscles are still coiled so tight that I feel like I’m going to get a double Charley horse in both of my thighs. My stomach hurts—like an I need to puke kind of hurts. My head aches, and my chest also feels like I’ve tried out a new career in inhaling fire.

It might be preferable to this one. Maybe I should make an appointment. Talk to someone. Tell someone how I can’t sleep at night. About the dreams. About running this company that my dad created from nothing and turned into a multi-billion dollar success story. Tell someone about how hard this is for me, even after nearly four years. About how I still feel like an imposter because my dad died too soon and too young, and I miss him. I know I’m never going to be him. Ever.

Dad stopped working at the office years before he died. He ran things mostly from home and on the road because family always came first whenever it was possible. My dad was a freaking superhero. And I’m…not. I push myself, and I know what I’m doing. I went to an Ivy League school. So why do I always feel so lost? I delegate as much as possible, but then I feel ridiculous for doing it. For passing off work, even the small stuff. I know people think I’m entitled because I don’t book my own appointments or