“Don’t tell me it’s because that person doesn’t exist. She does.”
“No, she doesn’t.” She closes her eyes. Does she want to be Bree? The carefree woman from St. John who carelessly kissed a stranger in a bar and slept with him. Or does that woman not exist here in Nashville? Maybe she’s buried deep down inside and needs to be set free. I could be that for her.
“You’re wrong. She’s right here in front of me.” My hands ghost against her sides and over her shoulders. I barely suppress a moan at how good it feels to touch her again even if I’m barely touching her at all.
“Chase,” she pleads. For what, I don’t know. For more? For space? For me to keep pushing until she can’t say no anymore?
“What is it, Princess?” Massaging her shoulders, I try to get her to admit she wants me too, but then her stomach growls and breaks the spell.
“Please let me go.” Her tone is sharp, so I immediately release her and step to the other side of the kitchen to give her space.
“Do you want more coffee?” I ask. She stares at me for a minute. I tip my head in silent question and wait for her brain to catch up.
She clears her throat, shakes her head, and says, “That would be great.”
We work in companionable silence. She unpacks the food and arranges it on the kitchen island while I get our drinks and place settings like this is a normal occurrence. It hits me how natural everything feels with her.
Looking over at Bree as we eat side by side at the counter, I can’t help but stare. I know what she looks like dressed up after a wedding or for a formal event like she was last night. What she looks like after several drinks. When she’s drunk on pleasure. With my cock in her mouth. Underneath me.
Shit, down boy.
I also know what she looks like in lawyer mode at the office.That’s Gabrielle. Prim. Proper. No nonsense. But seeing her here, in her own home, she looks like Bree, and it’s my favorite look on her. She’s gorgeous.
“I like you like this.” My words are out before my brain can tell my mouth to shut up.
“Like what?” She swallows and takes another sip of coffee to help wash down the massive bite of cinnamon sugar bagel she just shoved into her mouth. I smile, knowing she doesn’t care about devouring her breakfast in front of me.
Waving my hand, I gesture to her body. “Like this. Dressed down. You’re so put together at the office. It’s the first time I’ve seen you in jeans I think.”
She looks down at her jeans and loose-fitting shirt. Sure, she fixed her hair and put on a face of makeup designed to look like she wasn’t trying too hard before she came downstairs this morning, but overall, she’s relaxed.
“I wear jeans. You’ve seen me in jeans.”
“Not at the office.” I take a sip of water.
“There’s a dress code. We can’t all wear workout clothes to the stadium,” she argues, defensively.
“You work in sports, Bree. Not some stuffy corporate job.” Placing the glass back down, I turn to face her for this conversation.
“Not everyone can wear golf shirts and get away with it.” Ah, okay, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Why not?”
She sighs heavily like she’s trying to figure out how to explain this to a toddler.
“I’m just asking.” I raise my hands, palms out, in a sign of surrender to diffuse her rising frustration. It’s clearly a sensitive subject where she’s concerned. “I’ve never seen any of the men in the front office wear suits, except maybe Grant, but he owns the team so that’s understandable. Why are you always in skirts and dresses?”
“Women are expected to dress a certain way in an officeenvironment.” She deflects again, but I won’t let her get away with not answering me. Something else is going on here.
“What are you not saying?” I don’t have a pulse on the office dynamics as the new guy, but I get the sense she struggles with the men in the front office if her reaction is anything to go by.
“If I want anyone to take me seriously, I have to dress the part, okay?” Her hands slap her thighs when she drops them.
“Well, that’s stupid.”
“Great, thanks.” She pushes her chair back from the counter, annoyed.
“Hey.” Grabbing her hand, I stop her from getting up. “I wasn’t callingyoustupid. I meant thatthey’restupid if what you’re wearing is a consideration in whether you’re qualified at your job. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I don’t see how what you wear has anything to do with what you’re capable of.”
