The Mix-Up (Southern Hearts Club #3) - Melanie Munton Page 0,2

Charleston.

And my boss doesn’t remember spearing her with his royal scepter, the son of a bitch.

So, you try working for a man who treats some of the best pleasure you’ve ever known as inconsequential as a hangnail and see if you don’t constantly sport Resting Bitch Face around him.

A thin manila folder is dropped on top of my French fade manicure, halting my progress in the email I’m furiously typing. My fingers pause as I suck in a much-needed breath. Because only one person in this entire office would have the steel-plated balls to do such a thing. And unfortunately, he’s the one who signs my frigging paycheck.

I hear a muffled male voice and know he’s probably telling me to “turn off the squabbling, men-bashing drivel” and pay attention. That’s exactly what he called Kennedy’s show one day when he swiped up one of my earbuds before I could stop him to find out what I’m always listening to.

I tap my Bluetooth earpiece, turning it off. But I don’t look at him. Why? People not making eye contact when they speak to him is one of his biggest pet peeves.

Heh. Take that, prick.

“Gee, sorry, boss man. Didn’t quite catch that.”

He pauses for a moment, probably to grind his teeth together hard enough to give himself a migraine. “Spec sheet for prospective client,” he grates in a low voice, referring to the folder still balanced on my hands as I resume typing. “Look over their queries and come up with an approximate quote, as well as a realistic timeline for each individual project.”

My eyebrow notches up, though I keep my focus trained ahead. “I guess saying ‘please’ is too big of a time waster?”

“Yes. Since I know you’re going to do it regardless, that one syllable would have been a waste of my time and breath.”

I slowly nod at my computer screen. “Yep. Better save all that hot air for the next ass you have to blow smoke up.”

“Better than kissing those asses.”

I click my tongue against my teeth. “If I were you, I’d start puckering up because your personality is severely lacking in both charm and tact.”

“From the horse’s mouth, huh, duchess?”

Now, now, I look up at him.

Did I mention that Ryder Colson is a brutally beautiful man?

Because of course he would be.

His hair color is somewhere between dark blond and light brown, complementing his golden skin tone. It’s slightly longer on top and cut shorter at the sides. He always somehow manages to get that floppy part to sweep across his forehead at just the right angle to look suave. A small strand perpetually hangs over his left eyebrow, no matter how many times he shoves it back. His eyes are a soulful blue, his nose is long and straight, and day-old stubble claims permanent residency on his square jawline.

Worst of all, his bottom lip has this full, rounder thing going on that pisses off my neglected libido to the point that I want to dig my teeth into that flesh until I draw blood.

Easy, girl. Your momma didn’t raise no psycho.

Despite the casual leniencies he affords his employees, Ryder never dons anything other than crisp, immaculately tailored suits. Hellaciously expensive ones that I’m pretty sure he has shipped in from London. As the owner and CEO, he frequently meets with clients, in and out of the office, so he always has to look professional. And flaming hot.

Damn him.

Hey, I’m human. He’s sex on two legs. There’s nothing criminal about noticing it.

And did you catch his name for me? Duchess.

I don’t know where it came from. He just assigned it to me that first week. I could have reported him to HR a million times for the inappropriate moniker and slapped a lawsuit on him if I wanted. But I just let it ride for some bizarre reason. Probably because HR would have a field day with all the dirt he could shovel at them about me.

But now you see why I had to re-name the va-jay-jay.

I dagger him with a look that would eviscerate a lesser man. And as much as it galls me to admit, Ryder here could never be categorized as lesser in any aspect of his life. “You could have just emailed this to me, you know. No need for these precious heart-to-hearts of ours.”

His navy eyes dance with something resembling amusement. “Now, what kind of person would that make me when I can clearly see how cutting me down at every opportunity brings you