Page 19 of Sexy Bad Boss

I wheel him into the kitchen and leave him to watch while I raid his fridge and pantry. He’s got a few tomatoes, onions, and a couple of chicken breasts. I hold the container of greens out like a trophy. “See. Salad greens, and they’re still edible.”

“Unbelievable,” he says while I search out wooden sticks I can use for kebobs and wineglasses from a top cupboard.

I pour a couple of glasses of wine from a bottle in the wine fridge and pass one to James. “It’s a shame no one gets to use this kitchen, don’t you think? It’s such a great spot for a little wining and dining.”

“You know I can’t cook.” He focuses on his phone, most likely checking his email, while I start dicing chicken.

If only my own kitchen were as nice as this. If only I had time to cook more often. Although now that I’m finishing up at Frost Inc., I suppose I’ll have plenty of time for experimental gourmet meals. “We should have done this more often. The two of us.”

James doesn’t respond. The man never stops working. Ever. Does he even take time off to take care of his needs?

I almost ask him, since the last few brilliant moments have slipped past me. I glance at him, and, sure enough, he has his phone in his hand, but he’s stopped tapping the screen. Instead, his gaze is locked on my boobs. My nipples perk up; the thin cotton is almost painful across them. So this is why I wear a bra.

“That’s some serious focus, James. Are you all right?”

“What? Sorry?” He shifts his attention to my face. “I was thinking about the meeting with George Hollister. We’re so close to acquiring Hollister Developments.”

“Oh. Here I thought you were staring at my tits.”

“At your...” His gaze runs a triangle between my face and both breasts. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I wasn’t. I would never.”

I find myself swallowing too against a sudden rush of saliva. You’d think I would be used to my body’s unwanted response to my boss, but I’m not. It only gets worse. “It’s okay. I mean if you were. They’re kind of out there today.”

“Y-you’re not wearing a bra.”

It’s more of an observation than a question, but I run with it. After all, I was hoping the lack of a bra might spark curiosity. I pop the rest of the chicken sticks onto a plate so I can take them out to the patio grill. “No, I’m not. I seem to have forgotten to pack any underthings.”

“Any underthings?” His brows pull together as he clamps his hands tightly around his phone on his lap. His eyes widen. “As in...?”

“No bras, no panties.” I shrug. Inside I am dying to drown my embarrassment in wine as red as I imagine my cheeks would be if I weren’t putting all my effort into staying cool and composed. After all, I’m trying to ruffle my boss, seduce him.

“No panties?” he asks gruffly.

Poor guy. The way his throat muscles work as though he’s going to swallow his tongue gives me a thrill. He’s had a hard day. He’s propped up on medication and Johnny Walker Blue. This probably isn’t very chivalrous of me.

“No panties.”

“You’re...”

“The word’s commando, I believe.”

“Commando then. Do you want to race home and pack some more things? Some, uh, underthings?”

“Why, James, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so speechless.”

“I’m not.” He shifts and the wheelchair bounces and squeaks under him. “I’m not speechless. I’m just…that can’t be particularly comfortable in those pants.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” I turn away to grab the wine and to keep from grinning at his utter discomfort. Although, really, I have no idea if he’s uncomfortable because he likes my being commando or because he doesn’t. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I top off my glass. Either way, whatever happens this week is the last-ditch effort of a desperate person.

“I’m not commando.”

“You’re not.”

Does he sound relieved? Lifting the glass to my lips, I down a mouthful. “Of course not. I’m wearing yours.”

His jaw drops. “Mine?”

“Yep. I figured you wouldn’t mind.” I pick up the plate. “After all, I’m indispensable, and you need me. Is that correct? Even more so this week? And you want to give me whatever I need to stick around?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says slowly. “But I don’t understand what that’s got to do with my boxer briefs.”

“Nothing really.” I open the back door as he wheels across the tiles behind me. “Except that right now I need to get into your pants.”