Page 17 of Sexy Bad Boss

“Do you have an access card for the building?” I ask Myra as I hastily shove my computer into its bag.

“I’m all set,” she says, stepping away from the desk so I can join my siblings, who are all three making hurry up motions with their hands. “Go. Have fun. And happy birthday.”

***

Myra returns from the kitchen, pulling me out of the recollection. She lifts the bottle she’s brought, along with her own drink, and offers to refresh mine. “Thanks,” I mutter as she splashes dark liquid into my glass.

“I’m certain you aren’t supposed to drink, but I’m equally convinced you will refuse to follow your doctor’s orders.”

She knows me far too well. Better than anyone else in my life. And she’s right, of course. I should probably eat to soak up some of this alcohol. Pretty sure the mingled effects of booze and pain meds are why I feel so lightheaded at the moment. Or maybe it’s the way that robe rides high on her thighs when she sits in the chair Ronnie recently vacated.

“We’ve become great friends over the years, haven’t we? And business associates,” I murmur, mostly to remind myself of where I stand with her.

Her lips turn down. “We have.”

And friends don’t ogle each other like I’m currently doing to her, do they? Because it would be weird, and uncomfortable, and a little bit ridiculous given our professional relationship. “You’re indispensable, Myra. You’re my Supergirl. I’m not sure I can live without you. I really wish you’d reconsider your resignation.”

“James.” She leans forward, her robe gaping again. My gaze can’t seem to settle; it keeps darting from her legs to the curve of her breast and back again. And back again. And then she crosses one leg over the other and I catch my breath, my hand shaking because it wants to reach out and smooth over that silken, exposed skin. Which is so wrong. What’s in these pain pills the doctor gave me anyway?

She’s my admin, my right hand—at the moment, literally. I’m awfully damn helpless until my wrist heals. I need her, especially for the next week or so. If she knew the state of my mind right now she’d probably hightail it out of here without bothering with the two weeks’ notice she promised. And if she does that, I won’t have the time I need to convince her to stay.

Clearing my throat, I place my drink on the coffee table and tug my computer back into place on my lap, which is still a little off-kilter thanks to the hard-on that hasn’t yet deflated.

With my gaze on the computer screen, I say, “I’m hungry. Do you think you could make us something to eat?”

There is no sound for a long moment, and then I hear her sigh followed by a rustling noise. “Let me go put some clothes on, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

I glance up as she walks away, her ass swaying under that thin robe. And even though two dozen emails are demanding my attention, all I can think is, She isn’t wearing any clothes.