“How so? I picked the dress this morning based on your feedback.” She deepens her voice and raises her index finger. “‘You look like shit. Frumpy.’” Then the middle finger. “‘Homeless people wear better clothes.’” The ring finger. “‘I don’t like it when people dress to inspire pity.’” A corner of her lips twists as she raises the pinky. “‘How you look reflects on both me and the company.’ So I picked out the most fabulous outfit from the ones your personal shopper sent me. And you’re right.” She gives me an insincere smile. “Peopledotreat me differently now that I’m not dressed like a hobo.”
She hasn’t forgotten my other dig.If you dressed better, maybe Larry wouldn’t have been such a dick. He’s shallow and judges people by the way they dress.
“Even Matthias and Don said hi, and they’re never that friendly.”
That spikes my blood pressure again. “That doesn’t mean you should dress like a”—I struggle with a suitable word, since I’d rather get trampled by a horse than admit she’s hot or that I’m affected—“hussy!”
Her eyebrows climb a couple of stories. “Ahussy?”
Not the word I was looking for, but it’s too late to take it back. I opt for offense. “I wanted you to look and act professional, not flirt with every male on the floor.”
“Matthias and Don hardly constitute ‘every male.’”
“Don gave you a granola bar hefilchedfrom the breakroom.”
“So? At least he’s nice enough to bring me things without expecting anything in return. That’s called ‘altruism,’” she says, overpronouncing the word.
“It’s easy to be altruistic with something somebody else paid for. In case you didn’t know,Ipay for the snacks in there.” Technically it’s the firm, but I’m the cofounder and co-owner, so it’s really me.
She taps her lip. “Hmm. You know, you’re right.”
I open my mouth to say something, but this sudden agreement leaves me momentarily mute.
“I’ll take him up on his offer to go out for a coffee break later. His treat, he says. I’m sure he’ll pay for it with his own money.”
She’s doing this on purpose. She has to know she still has the power to arouse fury and other frustratingly intense feelings I’d rather not name, no matter how much I try to hide her effect on me. Although our time together was short back then, we knew each other pretty well—easily well enough to know which buttons to push.
“He won’t have time for a coffee break because I just put him on the Levine due diligence,” I say, rather pleased with myself for my foresight. Over my dead body is she going to be having coffee with Don.
She cocks an eyebrow. “And if you hadn’t, you would now.”
“I’m the boss. If you don’t like it, quit and be your own boss.”
She shakes her head. “The others were right,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
“About what?” I demand.
“You being grouchy. If you’re going to be difficult and moody, why don’t you just call Yvette and relieve yourself? She’d welcome the opportunity.”
The mention of Yvette doesn’t inspire anything except a recollection of my nightmare. My mood darkens. Aspen can’t possibly know about my awful dream, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t push my button. Again. “What the hell does that mean?”
“You’re the boss. Use your boss brain and figure it out,” she says as she holds her legal pad higher on her chest to flip me the bird. She thinks she’s so clever, but I can see her reflection on the minibar fridge door to her left. “The word around here is that you need to get laid.” She probably didn’t mean for me to hear that, because she muttered it quietly. But I hear it anyway, and what little patience I’ve been holding on to frays, like a sweater when you tug at the loose thread.
Does she think that I haven’t tried to get laid?None of the women on my phone look good. And I never experienced that until she reappeared in my life. It’s all her fucking fault that I am impossible and I can’t get laid. Or that I’m plagued by erotic nightmares. Or that I keep thinking about her, wondering about her, and stew in pain, anger and resentment, old and new.
And jealousy, too. Because God knows I got jealous as hell when she smiled at Matthias and Don. And I hate it that she makes me feel this way.
Her I-didn’t-do-anything expression snaps something inside me.
I jump to my feet and stride toward her. Apprehension flares in her eyes. Her tongue darts out and licks her lips. On a different woman, I might call it a nervous gesture, but never her. When she does it, it’s a temptation. A dare.
She holds her ground, her chin held high. I snake my hand out, wrap it around her wrist and pull her to me. She loses her balance in those heels. The legal pad clatters on the floor, and her body collides against mine.
Christ. She’s not wearing a bra. I tunnel my fingers into her hair, holding her tight. The visible pulsing in her delicate neck drives me crazy. I want to bury my face there and inhale her scent, suck, letting her feel my teeth against her skin, until I leave my mark on her, so everyone else in the damn office knows to stay away.
Her eyes on mine, she doesn’t push me away. Something that looks likeyou wouldn’t darecrosses her gaze as her breathing roughens and her cheeks turn rosier.
I gave you a chance to stop this,I think savagely before my mouth crashes down on hers. My head starts to spin, and I can’t get enough. I drink her up like a man who hasn’t had water in weeks. She’s so sweet, so delicious. What’s even hotter is that she’s kissing me back, aggressively—like she wants to devour me and hurt me at the same time.
