Shit. That’s true. “I’ve got it.” Back to the closet, trench out and over the back of her chair. It hides everything.
Perfect.
Job done, I return to my desk. Now I can concentrate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Rae
IAM LITERALLY TIEDto my chair. And… I don’t hate it.
Okay, if I’m being completely honest, the way my body’s reacting is… shockingly inappropriate for a work environment.
Which is apparently the way Grant and I roll. And, yes, I feel lots and lots of guilt about it. It’s just that, at this very minute, the guilt is far outweighed by all the other stuff. Stuff like my nipples, which are currently hard at attention and firmly pro-Grant, and my skin, which has gone prickly hot.
A new email pops up in my inbox. I open it, focusing hard on the words and on controlling my breathing. Okay. I can do this.
I respond to the message with information that I literally gave to the entire team last week. It’s fine. I’m used to it.
Alrighty then. Back to updating the employee development file. Behind me, Grant’s typing like nothing ever happened, and the sound of it is too much. I shut my eyes, squirm a little in my chair, and test my legs for wiggle room. The belt is loose enough that I can wrestle my way out if I want to. If necessary, I can also just reach down and pull the bow open, but…
I really, really don’t want to. I want…
“Sticky notes,” I say through dry lips.
When he doesn’t immediately reply, I push on the desk to spin his way and wait for his eyes to meet mine. He removes his headphones, looks down at where my nipples are fighting the good fight to get out of this top, and back up.
“Yes, Rae?”
“I, um, I need sticky notes.”
“Ah. And where would those be?”
I point at a storage cabinet on the far wall. “Second shelf, left.”
He seems perfectly content to walk over to the cupboard and search it, his hand finally finding the big, yellow stickies. When he holds them up, I shake my head.
“I need theLes Misones.”
“TheLes Misones. I assume you meanLes Misérables, the musical.” At my nod, he returns the stickies and continues his search. After a good thirty seconds, he says, “I don’t see them.”
“Oh, they’re… in the box, actually. There, beside the little clothespin thingies.” I smile. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem.” He takes a long look at the miniature clothespins before handing over the stickies. “Anything else?”
At my headshake, he returns to his desk.
Twice more over the next half hour, I ask for things, and both times, he gets them for me, no complaints. Nothing, really, except for this knowledge—this secret—between us.
When someone knocks at the door, I jolt halfway out of my seat, almost tripping in the process. I sit just as a head pops in and, oh shit, it’s Otty. Is it after 6:00 p.m. already? I forgot she was coming. Suddenly, all our subtle, sexy transgressiveness disappears, and I am frantic.
“Hey, Beanie! Nice digs!” she says, casting a quick look at Grant and then back at me with an obvious eyebrow hike. “Hel-lo, there!”
“Otty!” I force a smile, even though I have never fought so hard not to cringe, because I have found one more flaw in this game, and it is that I can’t even turn fully to look at her. If I do, she’ll see the front of my legs. And she’ll know. Hell, she’s my sister. She’ll know something’s up anyway. “Meet Grant! Grant, Otty.”
“Grant? It’s a pleasure. You must be Beanie’s new colleague.”
“The pleasure is mine. Otty?” I don’t have to turn around to feel Grant’s eyes shift to me. “Beanie?”
