I put my things away, fire up my computer, and pause when my feet hit something under my desk. “What the…?”
It takes me a second to recognize it as one of those ergonomic footrests I’ve been eyeing online. The adjustable wooden kind, no less. Way out of my price range.
“Cream and sugar?”
“How’d you know?”
One side of his mouth kicks up in a smirk. “Given the pumpkin spice affinity, I figured I’d be safe dumping in lots of both.”
“No. I mean, how’d you know I needed a footrest?”
“You swing your legs.”
“I do not.”
“Rae,” he says in the same benevolent, takes-no-bullshit toneI’ve heard Hannah use with her boys more than once, “we both know you’ve got your feet in midair while you wiggle around on that sweet, round butt all day. Now, maybe this way, I won’t have to spank it again to make you stop.”
And just like that, I’ve lost every one of my core executive functions.
“What?” he asks. “Am I wrong?”
I manage a tiny headshake.
“What’s that?” he whispers.
“No. You’re not wrong.”
“How is your”—the tiniest of smirks—“backside, by the way?”
His words send warmth curling into my abdomen. My thighs squeeze together. “It’s fine.”
“Good.”
I wait, breath bated, while his warm gaze travels all over my face, lingering briefly at my mouth, before returning to my eyes. He’s going to kiss me. And I can’t think of a single reason I shouldn’t kiss him back.
My eyes find his mouth, gravity pulls me forward… and he stands up.
“Good,” he repeats. Nodding, he swipes one hand over his face, turns away, and then back to me, before finally returning to his desk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Grant
I’VE NEVER EXPERIENCED ASmany interruptions as Rae Jensen endures in a day. And I’m not referring to her regularly scheduled meetings.
What astounds me isn’t just the number of people who come in here asking for things. It’s the things themselves. First off, there are the usual requests for things like tampons and tissues. Then the people coming in asking for updates on vacation days remaining and health savings account balances. The patience with which Rae explains over and over that she doesn’t directly access the latter, while giving not only personal codes but then step-by-step instructions, is one of the more impressive things I’ve seen.
We’ve now got Blake, nearly in tears because her skirt’s splitting at the seam and she’s got a date tonight, and what does Rae do but calmly sit the woman down in her chair and sew the damn thing up.
I’m irate enough when Blake leaves that I bark, “Shut the door.” At Rae’s look of reproach, I tack on a quickplease.
“Why do you look like that?” Rae asks once it’s just the two of us. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ve got to stop that, Rae.”
“Stop what?”
“Doing all the things for everyone.”
