"Fine, fix it," he grumbled, and he stood so fast, we were chest to chest.
It was a slightly awkward dance as we traded spots and in less than five minutes, while he poured himself another shot of tequila, I had the release retyped and sent to the printer.
As the machine spooled up and whirred to life, I felt a swell of pride in my chest.
Already, I was settling in and finding ways to be practically useful around here.
It was the environment I dreamed of, a corporate office with skirts, suits, and official business.
Not at all like wearing jeans and hoodies to a bar on the weekend hoping for tips.
That surge of pride in myself brought a grin to my face as I stood and realized Asher hadn't backed up at all.
He was still standing right over me where our awkward dance left him.
Our bodies were almost pressed together shoulders to knees, and he had one hand on his desk to steady himself.
"It's, uh… It's done, sir." I was flustered, face hot, hands sweaty.
And Asher was staring down the front of my shirt where, after that bit of leaning over his shoulder, my black, lacy bra was no longer hidden under the camisole.
My tits were plumped like two large, soft pillows waiting for his tired head to rest and his mouth was agape.
He might as well have been drooling.
I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw a man who was lost. He wasn't just some stubborn, angry drunk.
In my years of bartending, I knew people didn't just go fill their gullet with whiskey because it was fun and normal.
Men like this had secrets, maybe buried skeletons, or trauma they had endured.
Asher Locke wasn't a bad guy.
He was messed up.
Something, maybe that thing that Penny winced about—the one she didn't mention but I knew was likely the driving force—had hurt him really badly.
And drinking was the only way he found to cope with it.
He was broken, not bad, and I felt a surge of guilt and shame as he licked his bottom lip.
It was the reaction he was supposed to have.
A hot woman in front of him, thick with curves and ready to please.
I stood right in front of him and he was drooling, and I felt like a piece of dog doo on the bottom of his shoe for pushing my chest out in front of him.
"I fixed it, sir…" I said softly, my conscience getting the better of me. I couldn't just throw myself at him when he was this drunk.
It was morally reprehensible—taking advantage.
I knew that. But it was so perfect.
All I'd have to do is put his hand on my chest and nature would do the rest. I bet if I touched his crotch, I'd find him hard as a rock.
"Fixed," he slurred, and for some God-forsaken reason his hand moved from the desk to my hip and made my entire body ignite.
I sucked in a breath of total shock.
