"What would you call it?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
"Hovering." A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "You've walked past this aisle six times in the last hour, River."
"Just checking on my employee."
"Youremployee." She crosses her arms, which just pushes her breasts up in that V-neck shirt she's wearing. I'm trying real hard not to stare. Failing. "Is that what I am?"
"Among other things." I abandon my pretense and walk toward her, drawn like I've been all week. Every day it gets harder to keep my hands to myself. "How's the inventory looking?"
"Perfect,boss." The word comes out teasing, almost sultry, and despite myself I feel it shoot straight through me.
"Don't call me that," I say, but there's no heat in it. Not anymore.
"Why not?" Her eyes spark with mischief. "You literally are my boss."
"Partner. Collaborator." The protest is automatic at this point. "Not boss."
"Uh-huh." She knows exactly what she's doing—I can see it in the way she's biting back a smile. "Whatever you say...boss."
Fuck. The second time hits even harder, maybe because she draws it out slightly, makes it sound almost like an invitation. My jeans get tighter and I have to shift my weight.
She notices. Of course she notices. Her scent spikes sweeter, pleased with herself.
"You're doing that on purpose," I manage.
"Maybe." She tips her head back as I get closer, has to because I'm a foot taller. "You're hovering again."
"Maybe I just like looking at you."
Her cheeks flush pink. "We're at work, Brooks."
"And?" I reach out—can't stop myself—tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. The contact makes her breath catch, her scent spiking sweeter, and I have to bite back a growl. "I'm the boss. I'll look at whoever I want."
"That's a terrible abuse of power."
"You gonna report me?"
"Maybe." But she's leaning into my touch, just slightly, her body betraying what her mouth won't say. "Depends on whether you're going to be insufferable all day."
"Probably." I let my hand linger at the curve of her neck, my thumb finding her pulse point. It's racing, fluttering like a trapped bird. "But you like it when I'm insufferable."
"I really don't."
"Liar." I can smell the truth on her—the way her scent's sweetening, going thick and warm and interested. "You love it."
The bell above the front door chimes and we spring apart. Mrs. Patterson walks in, her sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on us in the aisle like a heat-seeking missile.
"River, dear! And Beatrice, how lovely to see you working here." She's already heading our direction, and I watch her nose twitch, scenting the air. Her eyes go wide with knowing delight. "My goodness, something smellswonderful. Like fresh apple pie right out of the oven."
Bea's blush deepens from pink to crimson. I step in front of her automatically, a protective instinct I don't even think about.
"What can I help you with today, Mrs. Patterson?"
"Oh, just some wood stain for Gerald's project. But Beatrice, dear—" She peers around me, absolutely shameless. "You smell absolutelylovely. So ripe and sweet, like autumn harvest. Like a perfectly ready?—"
"Wood stain," I interrupt firmly, steering Mrs. Patterson toward Aisle 5 before she can finish that sentence. "Gerald doing that deck project?"
But Mrs. Patterson isn't deterred. She glances back at Bea, her expression going soft and knowing in that way that makes small-town gossips dangerous. "You take care of yourself, sweetheart. Make sure you're eating properly. Getting plenty of rest. And stayinghydrated." The emphasis on that last word makes Bea look like she wants to melt into the floor.
