And that heavy-duty watch with the worn front plate on his wrist. It’s not the kind I’d expect on a billionaire CEO. Too hard-edged. Too tough. But it matches the manly, dangerous energy he exudes.
I should look away. Itryto look away.
But an awareness detonates between us. Hot. Immediate. My lungs constrict. My skin prickles. My pulse drops, then surges; like my body can’t decide if it wants to run or leap into his arms.
I recognize Brody Davenport from his pictures. But those photos didn’t convey how commanding he is in real life. How lethal. Howbeautiful.
How inappropriate that I’m gawking at my possible future boss like he’s some kind of buff gingerbread man, and I’m dying to lickthe icing off. And how deeply, catastrophically unfortunate that I’m attracted to him. I’m engaged.Engaged.Ugh.
This is wrong on so many levels.
I should not be ogling him. But apparently, being almost married doesn’t make me blind, because my eyes are too busy notifying my brain—loudly—that the man in front of me is a prime male specimen radiating pheromones the way a pine tree sheds needles.
Enough. I need to get a grip.
I manage to rein in my hormones, and school my features into a professional expression.I hope.
He stops behind Tiny, who is now seated and, clearly, less affected than I am, and levels that scowl directly at me.
His icy gaze slides down to my chest. The furrow between his brows deepens like he’s staring at a crime scene.
“What are you wearing?”
“Excuse me?” I blink, then glance down at myself.
He tilts his chin, like he can’t believe he has to spell it out. “That. On your jumper.”
I look down at my merino woolpullover. I’m not used to how the Brits call it a jumper. It has a festive design…but it’s discreet.
It looks understated.Classy,in my opinion.
I paired it with a sleek pencil skirt and my one pair of red-soled heels. This is my version of the ‘please hire me, I’m festive and fierce’ combo.
In my head, I looked like the executive version of a Vogue Christmas cover. But taking in the distaste on my maybe boss’s face, I’m worried I resemble a malfunctioning elf from the discount store. Ugh.
I was hoping to make a positive impression on him, too.
Suspicion filters into my mind.
Surely not.He can’t hate Christmas, can he? Nah.Who hates Christmas?But, given how he stares at the reindeer like it dropped a turd on his plate of Christmas cookies, I’m beginning to think otherwise.
I resist the urge to cover it with my handbag. Instead, I point tomy chest. “In case you were wondering, that’s a subtle reindeer motif.” I sniff like I’m describing museum art.
“Hmm.” He grunts.
That’s not a nice hmm. In fact, it’s a very worrying hmm. Also, I should not have pointed to my chest because now his attention is locked there. I flush, then tell myself sternly to stop.
Note to self: Never try to win over a man who looks like he could have Christmas arrested.
“Do you…” I shudder not wanting to ask the question but having to do so because that suspicion has grown until it clogs my brain like poisonous fungi. “Do you not like the festive season?”
He jerks his gaze up to my face, and his own features are hard. “I detest Christmas.”
That fizzy feeling I harbor in my chest during the festive season wilts.How can I work for someone who hates Christmas?I swallow.
But I do want this position. And there aren’t many EA jobs on the market.
Of all the offices in the world, I walked into this one. Unless… He’s saying it to test me.
