Bingo.
I sit straighter, my nervous gaze flicking from the screen to Paige, but she sits at her desk with her head in her book, oblivious.
You are a fucking creep, Parker.But I don’t care. I click on her profile, and hundreds of posts show up, but one in particular catches my attention—office-romance trope. What the fuck is that?
I click on the most recent upload. It’s a particularly descriptive book review about an employer and his assistant and an acronym I’ve never seen before.
“What does STFUATTDLAGG mean?” I whisper at my screen.
I go down the rabbit hole. Ignoring all the documents I need to sign, I scroll through Paige’s profile and watch one review after another until the meaning of the acronym becomes clear.
Heat licks up my neck, and I break out in a sweat.Paige likes books where the love interest tells the protagonist to shut the fuck up and take that dick like a good girl?
Is that what Paige wants in real life?
My cock throbs, the ache so deep in my balls I’m not going to be able to get through the day without relieving it.
I guess I know what self-indulgent activity I’ll be partaking in today.
CHAPTER 3
Paige
“What are you going to wear?” Taylor asks, leaning her hip against the counter in the office kitchen, her hands wrapped around her afternoon coffee mug.
“This?” I wave a hand at my current outfit. It’s not an overly formal event, and with a life that fits into two suitcases, there isn’t much room for evening wear.
She purses her lips and taps her chin. “No. You should wear the dress that ties at the neck.”
I mentally scan my wardrobe. “The plum-colored one?”
Taylor nods. “It’s sexy but sophisticated.”
“I guess so.”
“Good.” Taylor takes my mug and rinses them both in the sink. “You should leave now to get ready.”
I follow her out of the kitchen and toward our desks. “I can’t leave yet. I have to file some documents at the clerk’s office first.”
The court is only a ten-minute walk from my apartment, and I want to get the Johnson paperwork filed today so that it’s ready to hand off to Jessica when she comes back on Friday.
“Always thinking about work.” Taylor clucks her tongue but grins. “He is going to miss you.”
“My work ethic, not me.”
He’s probably looking forward to a trash can free of annoying sticky notes.
“Try and have a little fun tonight. There’s free alcohol, and they usually serve the good stuff.” She waves and heads to her desk.
I make my way to Mr. Carlson’s office, scanning the room until I find the folder with all the paperwork—unsigned.
“Mr. Carlson,” I call out, but his office and connected en suite are empty.
Where is he?
I check the clock. 2:10 p.m.
Maybe he took my advice and decided to take a break. But why wouldn’t he sign the documents first?
