Bossy Mr. Frosty Read online

  Bossy Mr. Frosty

  K Webster

  Contents

  1. Adrian

  2. Rylan

  3. Adrian

  4. Rylan

  5. Adrian

  6. Rylan

  A Note to the Reader

  For more MM romances by K Webster

  About Author K Webster

  Bossy Mr. Frosty

  Copyright © 2020 K Webster

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bossy Mr. Frosty

  My new boss is cold, aloof, uncaring…

  Twice my age and incredibly hot.

  I know better than to crush over the older, untouchable man.

  I’m here to do a job and prove I can do it well.

  What I don’t expect is for the bossy Mr. Frosty to thaw in my presence.

  His chilly demeanor grows hot the moment we’re alone and all I can do is melt for him.

  He’s supposed to be straight, yet with me, he bends his own rigid rules.

  I want to follow my heart, but my dreams might be at stake.

  Do I choose a budding, forbidden romance or go back to my safe, bland reality?

  One look at his rare, beautiful smile, though, and I realize I never had a choice.

  ***This is a short, steamy, instalove office romance with a happy for now.***

  One

  Adrian

  Incompetent.

  Why are they all so incompetent?

  My best friend Dante would argue my assistants are more than capable, but no one will ever be able to understand my complicated expectations, much less ever even reach them.

  I beg to differ.

  It’s not that difficult to please me. And by please me, I mean do your damn job correctly, efficiently, and with a smile.

  This magazine has to be successful. The company was a non-direct gift from someone whom I cared deeply for. If I allow this magazine to fail, I fail Mr. Kincaid. And, because he pulled me from the dregs of my nightmarish life, dusted me off, and guided me into this one that feels more like a dream I don’t deserve than my reality, I make it my mission to succeed for him.

  Dante also argues that his father would have been proud even if I ran my opportunities into the ground. His father wasn’t a cold, calculating businessman. No, he was joyful and funny. Business savvy and made good decisions.

  I want to be just like him because he’s more of a father than mine ever was.

  A chill sweeps down my spine, causing me to sit straighter and my shoulder muscles to tighten.

  I’m not the cold, calculating businessman, am I?

  I can be warm.

  Hot even.

  Okay, so I can never be hot.

  In the physical sense, sure. I know I’m a good-looking man and plenty of women let that be known to me. But, as far as emotions go, it’s a struggle to find that soft, tender heat most people experience. Dante, for instance, is a warm heart, even if his ex-fiancé did him dirty and left him cold toward relationships. He still dates around and people are drawn to him.

  But me?

  I can’t even get them into my bed after the first date.

  I’ve pondered why this is on many occasions, late at night when the loneliness creeps around me from the shadows, taunting and hissing at me.

  Why doesn’t anyone want me?

  Beyond the physical sense, I mean.

  I’m incredibly successful. I took this magazine from popular to explosive. My clothes are expensive and tailored. I’m diligent about the foods I put into my body and work out extensively. I’m well read and knowledgeable on current events. Money continues to accumulate in my bank account, and yet I rarely spend it.

  I’m a catch, dammit.

  An email pings in my inbox, distracting me. It’s something my assistant should have handled. And just like that, I’m pissed off again. By the time I’ve finished putting out the fire and abused my keyboard by banging on it, I glance at the clock, realizing two hours have passed.

  That means my new assistant is a no-show because had Miss Moore arrived, Connie from HR would have pulled me into her office to meet the new hire. A ball of tension forms at the base of my skull. Absently I rub at it, hating that I’ll have to go yet more days without assistance.

  I’m bothered that yet another assistant quit on me.

  It was probably meant to be, though, because Tasha cared more about how much she could get away with. Her skirts got shorter and shorter. Cleavage got more and more exposed. The flirting with me was out of control. Sure, she was a beautiful woman, but I wasn’t interested, not in the slightest. I was interested in her doing her damn job and not trying to hook the boss. Apparently, when she realized it wasn’t happening, she decided to leave without a two weeks’ notice.

  With a heavy sigh, I rise from my desk chair, careful to push it back against the desk in a neat way. I straighten the file on my desk and place the pen beside it, parallel and straight, before closing the lid of my laptop. Once I’ve deemed my office is prepared for my brief departure, I stride across my expansive office that once belonged to my mentor. It still has a hint of a cigar smell that brings back fond memories of when I first started as a young man. Nearly two decades have passed since I began this career and sometimes it feels like only yesterday.

  Opening my office door, I notice the friendly chatter silences, which pleases me. I like that the good employees here know when to pipe down and get back to work. All of them in their cubicles refrain from making eye contact as they tap away on their computers.

  Except one.

  Big brown eyes, twinkling with delight, peer back at me. Shaggy brown hair. Crooked plaid bowtie. Goofy smile. Young…so young.

  Who is this man sitting at Tasha’s old desk?

  My brows furrow as I take in the man. He seems to be fresh out of high school. High, granite cut cheekbones. Long, dark lashes. Full, pouty pink lips. Sharp jawline that draws the eye to follow it from his ear all the way to his chin.

  “I believe you’re lost, young man,” I clip out in my no-nonsense tone.

  One of the editors, Sherry, who sits near Tasha’s old desk, stiffens. That’s the response I’m used to when I’m in business mode. The lost kid only grins harder. It’s…off-putting.

  “Your one o’clock called. They’ll be running late.” He holds up a pink slip. “Sherry says the story for February’s issue won’t be ready because her source disappeared, but we have a brainstorming session at three for us to consider what piece could take its place or if the piece she has is even salvageable without that source.” He waves the pink slip at me, a slight rise of an eyebrow as he implores me to take it. “At five, we really need to discuss the state of these files at this desk. I’ve already penciled it into your calendar in the shared folder.”

  I frown, a wave of confusion washing over me. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

  All typing ceases. Eight pairs of eyes glance my way, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The ninth pair of eyes—brown and glittering with amusement—remain locked on me.

  “Your assistant, silly.”

  My assis
tant?

  And silly?

  No one, and I mean absolutely no one, has ever called me silly in my entire life. I’m not silly. I’m serious and measured. I’m certainly not playful. Which is why I’m already over this little game.

  “I don’t have an assistant,” I growl, the muscles in my neck and shoulders going tight with tension. “Sir, this is trespassing—”

  He rises from the chair, sending a whiff of hazelnut my way. I’d always been a black coffee kind of guy until Dante’s sister Shelly forced me to drink hazelnut creamer one day. I was surprised that I enjoyed it. Ever since, it’s been a favorite flavor of mine. Something about the creamy nuttiness—

  I give my head a slight shake, chasing off the confusing, distracting thoughts to focus on my delightfully scented problem in front of me.

  “Mr. Frost, I’m Rylan,” the man says, leaning forward to offer his hand. “Rylan Moore.”

  I stare at his hand as though it’s a snake. This can’t be. My assistant didn’t show up. Connie never called me to meet the new hire. The résumé was for a woman, not a man. Right?

  My brain conjures up the paper inside my mind and I quickly scan back through the memory of reading it, looking for clues to indicate the sex of the person. I’d assumed it was a female because the name sounded feminine to me. However, nothing actually proved this line of thinking.

  It was a slip.

  A small mistake.

  Not that I’m opposed to a male assistant, it’s just that I’d assumed it was a female. Now, my brain is trying to play catch-up, piecing together this entire morning to make sense of the situation.

  He drops his hand that I never shook, his head tilting to the side as he studies me. The office remains deathly quiet as though they’re all watching and waiting.

  “It’s nice to meet you, handsome,” Rylan says with a wink that sends a jolt of something spasming down my spine. “I look forward to working with you.”

  Handsome.

  The word sends blazing fire lashing across my skin, burning at my neck and lower stomach. Humiliation, I suppose. Whatever it is, it’s a feeling I’m unfamiliar with. My hands begin to tremble. All I can think about is getting him out of here. And fast.

  “A word in my office,” I growl, my voice like icicles hammering down and piercing anything in their way. “Now, Mr. Moore.”

  Rather than balking at my words or cowering like most people do, he laughs. This infuriating, delicious smelling, fire inducing man child laughs. “You’re bossy, Mr. Frosty. You know that?”

  Someone snorts nearby. Tad. I should fire Tad. If he weren’t so proficient with social media, perhaps I would. I shoot Tad a firm glare that has him withering and the amusement draining from his face, leaving the room once again silent.

  Rylan rounds the desk and clasps a hand on my shoulder. His smile falls as he begins to dig his fingers into my tense muscles.

  “They said your heart was made of stone,” Rylan says, his brows furrowed, “but they failed to mention your body was hard too.”

  Another snort from Tad.

  I shake off Rylan’s hand, turn on my heel, and storm into my office. Seconds later, he follows me inside.

  “Close the door,” I command.

  His brow arches high. “Say please.”

  I scowl at him, refusing to utter the word, and instead study him. He’s fit in all the right places, though not nearly as cut or thick as I am. Despite him wearing a suit, there’s something about his suit that feels…inappropriate. Perhaps it’s the bowtie. Or the tiny coffee stain on his slightly wrinkled white shirt. Maybe it’s the pink slip he’s shoved into his jacket pocket. It could be the fact that he’s wearing tennis shoes with his suit.

  Though those are all scratching at my nerves, there’s something else.

  Something I can’t seem to pinpoint.

  My eyes land on his belt and then…

  I freeze, trying and failing to suck in air. It’s his pants. They’re so…tight. You can see… You can see…

  “Eyes up here, Mr. Frosty, or you’ll have yourself a sexual harassment lawsuit.” He laughs. “Seriously, don’t tease me like that.”

  All his words are banging around in my head, but all I can focus on is the fact he’s hung and proudly squeezed into slacks that probably fit him in middle school. Now, they’re obscenely too tight.

  I can see the outline of his dick.

  His large, impressive dick.

  Since when are dicks impressive?

  Ignoring the thought—since always—I force my eyes up to meet his. The burning is back, searing up my neck and settling on my cheeks.

  “It was a joke,” Rylan assures me, stepping closer. Closer and closer and closer. I’m rooted to the spot on my floor, unable to escape his hazelnut haze. “Lighten up, Frosty.”

  Up close, I notice he has a few freckles. So few I could count them. For reasons I can’t begin to understand, I want to count them. Maybe I’ll do that now.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two—

  “Are you counting my freckles?” Rylan’s face splits into a grin that’s no longer crooked but is wide and reveals straight teeth. All but one incisor. I find the small imperfection endearing.

  “I…” I swallow, confused by the way he’s seemed to shake up my mind. “Your tie is crooked.”

  He looks down at it, attempts to straighten it, and fails. With a shrug, he looks back up at me, brown eyes the color of caramel boring into me.

  “I like hazelnut and caramel,” I mutter absently as I reach up to adjust his tie. “And order.” The bowtie won’t lie straight. With purposeful movements, I lift his collar, locate the source of the problem—the twisted strap—adjust it, and then fix his collar. Once I’ve completed my task of straightening him up, I go back to finish counting his freckles. “There’s only forty-seven,” I say finally. “I’m sure you already knew this.”

  Rylan’s cheeks tinge pink and I wonder briefly if I’ve embarrassed him by pointing out his number of freckles or correcting his crooked bowtie problem. I like to fix things. It doesn’t usually extend to a person, but in this instance on this cold January day, it does.

  “I didn’t know,” Rylan says, his voice slightly breathless. “I never counted before.”

  “Well then. Now you know.”

  I want to look away from his face, but something about him demands my attention. It’s strange to me this effect he has on me. As though he’s a witch with a hazelnut spell that’s going to lure me into his trap.

  “Your tie is crooked too.” He bites down on one corner of his bottom lip, forcing my eyes there as his hands reach for my tie. I’m about to argue that my tie is most certainly not crooked, but then his fingers are brushing along my neck, sending curls of pleasure dancing through my body. He takes his time testing the knot on my tie and smoothing his hand down over the silky material. I can’t help but wonder if it’s an excuse to touch my chest and abs. The secret thought thrills me, though I don’t know why. His brown eyes lock on mine. “Should I check your belt too?”

  My cock reacts to his words. All the blood in my head rushes south, igniting flames inside me, causing my dick to swell and lengthen as if to test the constraints of my slacks. He’s so close I know the second he notices my physiological reaction because a small gasp of surprise escapes him.

  “My belt is fine,” I croak out, unable to look away from him, my eyes now fixating on his dark pink lips.

  “I’d like to be sure, Mr. Frosty.”

  Like an idiot, I nod. “I appreciate your thoroughness.”

  A small chuckle escapes him. It doesn’t do anything to help the state of my dick. When his fingers reach my belt, I groan. He brushes his fingertips over the leather before pushing it through the buckle. As he unlatches it and my pants loosen, I have to grab onto his shoulder to keep from swaying.

  What is ha
ppening right now?

  All I know is I want him to pull the belt off completely, to check the button and then the zipper. They could all be out of order. If so, perhaps he could just remove the pants altogether. Check on other areas.

  Instead, he refastens my belt. “Looks okay for now, but I’d like to take a closer look later.”

  He steps back and I’m horrified to see his dick has reacted to our inappropriate moment as well. I thought I could see all there was to see before, but with him hard, he may as well not be wearing pants at all.

  That idea excites me.

  It isn’t until he’s put several feet between us that reality comes creeping in. I’m shocked to discover we just shared whatever that was with the door standing open.

  “You’re fired,” I blurt out, trying desperately to find the Adrian Frost I was just twenty minutes before I met Rylan Moore.

  He laughs.

  The confusing man laughs.

  And rather than hate it, I decide right then, I might like to hear more of it.

  Two

  Rylan

  Cold. Cruel. Hateful.

  Sure, I’d heard the rumors buzzing behind the mysterious Adrian Frost, owner of Modern Times Life magazine. His magazine is a success, but the brilliance behind it comes in the form of an ice monster. The turnover at MTL magazine is laughable it’s such a high rate, especially his assistants.

  And yet, I’m still here.

  I have to be.

  His company devoured my parents’ small social living magazine whole not six months after I graduated from high school and officially went to work there. Though they were prepared and ready to sell because of their age, I was devastated. I grew up running the halls of our small magazine company, learning everything from the compilation of articles to photography to advertising to sales. By the time I was sixteen, I held a full-time job doing more than most senior editors at big-time magazines do, and probably a helluva lot better. But it all ended the moment my parents gave in to the magazine giant.