Chapter 1: The Boss Wants a Wife

Grant Maddox, my boss, had just returned from a wedding.

He strolled into the office, tie slightly askew, cheeks flushed from too much champagne and a few questionable dance moves. He tossed his keys onto the front desk and, out of nowhere, announced, "I want to fall in love and get married."

Holy cow—the notorious workaholic finally wants to tie the knot! I swear, the copier nearly jammed from the shock. The whole team looked up from their monitors, jaws dropping, as if someone had just declared free donuts in the break room.

"So, Ms. Carter, what do you think?"

I nearly dropped my coffee mug. "Mr. Maddox, you should’ve had this revelation ages ago!" My voice bounced off the glass walls, a little too loud, but I couldn’t help it. The guy’s been married to his job longer than most people’s actual marriages last.

"Shouldn’t you, as my ever-dedicated assistant..."

Say no more!

After all these years working with Grant Maddox, I can see where this is headed from a mile away. The man is about as subtle as a parade in a library.

With a mug in hand, I thumped my chest and promised, "Your happily ever after? Leave it to me, boss." I put on my best superhero grin, like I was about to leap a skyscraper for him.

Grant looked skeptical, but my determined face must’ve convinced him. He gave me that expectant look, eyebrow raised, like he was waiting for me to crack—but I just grinned wider.

Without missing a beat, I grabbed my trusty little Moleskine and went full-on HR mode:

"Mr. Maddox, what are you looking for in a wife?" My pen hovered, ready to jot down a list longer than a CVS receipt.

"Anything’s fine."

My hand froze mid-scribble. My professional smile faded. Nice one, Grant—are you just trying to make things hard for me?

I smirked, deciding to push his buttons. "Okay, how about the cleaning lady from our office?" I was ready to run with this joke, just to see if he was paying attention.

He shot back, "Ms. Carter, is that your work ethic? Want to swap jobs with her?" That one stung, but his eyes were dancing with mischief.

I zipped my lips. No more jokes. Not when he’s in this mood.

I scurried off to start building Grant’s blind date list. The pressure was on.

There are thousands of single women in Chicago. Finding the right one for Grant, with zero direction, was like searching for a four-leaf clover in Wrigley Field after a Cubs game. If I had a private investigator’s license, I’d have used it.

In the following days, I was in and out of Grant’s office more than the office coffee machine. I’d drop casual questions—"What do you think of brunettes?" "Are you a dog person or a cat person?"—but he’d just smirk, totally unhelpful.

Unexpectedly, rumors started spreading around the office again. The grapevine was working overtime. My phone buzzed with group chat notifications:

"Mr. Maddox and Ms. Carter flirt all day. When are they gonna make it official?"

"Make it official? Please. That’s not the kind of relationship you announce."

"Wait, what kind of relationship?"

"I heard Savannah Carter asking Mr. Maddox for money!"

In the restroom, people were gossiping like crazy. Every time a stall door opened, a new tidbit dropped. I heard my name at least three times. Some folks got so wound up they nearly missed their lunch break. One woman even forgot her salad in the fridge and cussed all the way down the hall. Who needs fiber when you have office drama?

I yanked up my pants and burst out of the stall. "I’m just a regular nine-to-fiver, okay? Is it a crime to ask for a raise?" My voice echoed off the tile, and everyone froze, caught mid-whisper.

Everyone scattered like pigeons in Millennium Park. I half-expected to see feathers on the floor.

I chased after them, waving my hands. "I’m only after Grant’s money, not his heart!" My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum, but they’d already vanished into the cubicle maze.

To clear my reputation, I knew I had to get Grant’s blind date on the agenda, fast! No more dilly-dallying.

And just like that, I made his blind dating public—spreadsheet and a mission. I posted a memo on the break room fridge: "Operation: Find Mr. Maddox a Wife is officially underway!"

As a result, the receptionist let it slip and told me the office rumors had changed again. The place was turning into a soap opera set.

"Now they’re saying you’re willingly the woman behind Mr. Maddox, not just trying to climb the ladder."

Me: "..."

I rolled my eyes. Some people say I’m a gold-digger, others say I’m the power behind the throne. The art of office spin never fails to amaze me.

At this point, I couldn’t care less. I started bringing in candidates for Grant’s blind dates. I put together dossiers, scheduled dinners, even booked a table at Gibson’s Steakhouse for extra romance points. The pressure was on.

According to the ranking of quality women on the list, I color-coded it for maximum efficiency. If matchmaking were an Olympic sport, I’d have brought home the gold.

The result: the first one ended in complete failure. Not even a courtesy text afterward.

"She didn’t like you?" As the head matchmaker, I needed to know why it flopped. I sat across from Grant, pen ready for notes.

Grant hesitated, fiddling with his watch. "I guess not."

I looked Grant up and down—he’s good-looking, so what went wrong? With that face, he could be on the cover of GQ.