Page 7 of Mister Lane

I smiled sweetly, putting as much sugar as I could into my response. “Yes, Sir. Thank you. I would appreciate that very much.” His grin morphed into a full-blown smile that nearly took my breath away. My sweet smile faltered as I leaned forward and reached for the gold pen he was holding. As I grabbed for it, our fingers brushed, and sparks of electricity erupted, shooting from my fingers and up my arm. All the small hairs on my body stood on end at the mere touch of his skin against mine. It took every ounce of effort not to fan myself, and I hoped my face didn’t look as hot as it felt. I was going to be in major trouble working for this man. I would be amazed if I lasted a week. The tension was just too strong between the two of us. Maybe I should’ve asked Mrs. Gunter for a transfer to a different department. It would probably be a pay cut, but surely any job in this building would still be a good paycheck that would be so much better than the job I just left. But I didn’t know if I could keep working for this man and keep my sanity.

“Are you ready to take notes, Ms. Fontaine?”

I nodded my head and stared down at the yellow paper, thinking that it was a much safer option than continuing to look at the man. “Yes, Mr. Lane. I’m ready.”

“That’s my good girl.”

The words, said in the velvety, rich honey voice, sent shivers down my spine, and butterflies erupted in my belly, and I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t know what I liked more, the crass way he threatened to tie me up and told me I needed a keeper, or the seductive way he called me his good girl with that husky tone. I just realized I liked both sides of him, and that scared me.

“What do you want for lunch?”

I was getting better at writing faster. Apparently, there was a way to write shorthand notes, but when I tried to look up the technique on the internet, it looked like utter gibberish to me. It didn’t take long to know I’d never be able to figure out what I’d written. What would be the point if I couldn’t translate the notes later?

“Emily?”

“Hmmm?” I was writing the word lunch from his last sentence when I blinked as I looked down at it and realized what I had written. “Oh.” I grinned and looked up. “Sorry. I was concentrating.”

“You know I can get you a transcriber for now until you get quicker at taking notes.” It was something he’d offered at least three times a day for the last three days, ever since I started. It was painfully obvious that I was hopelessly slow.

I scowled. “No.”

“Emily,” he sighed, “it’s just software to help you until you get better. It won’t be taking your job.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin in the air. I was stubborn, I knew it. But I also had my pride. I could scribble down some damn notes. He chuckled.

“Okay, be a good girl then, and tell me what you want for lunch.” He passed a menu over to me, and I saw it was my favorite Thai restaurant and bounced in my seat excitedly. Honestly, I’d only had it a couple of times in my life. Still, I’d had good memories of it, so when he’d mentioned it as an option for lunch the first day, I had gotten excited. After eating it, Iremembered why I liked it so much. “Next week we’ll get you to try something new.”

I looked up from the menu at his words and squinted. “Why change anything when you already know what you like?” I asked before looking back down at the options, then decided I was right and tapped the same thing I had last time. I enjoyed it. Why not get it again?

“You might miss out on something you could really love if you don’t give it a chance,” he said as he took the menu back and frowned down at it.

I shrugged. “Maybe,” I conceded. “But I wouldn’t know one way or another, so would it matter?”

I watched as Mr. Lane picked up the desk phone and made the call for our lunch before hanging up again. He then stood up and walked around the desk to stand over me. From the new position, it was like staring up at a towering redwood tree from the forest floor.

He reached over and traced a featherlight fingertip over my cheekbone, then across to my bottom lip, where he drew a line so softly I wasn’t sure if he was even touching me or if I was simply imagining the heat of him there.

“My good girl likes to play it safe,” he murmured to himself.

“Taking chances is dangerous,” I whispered.

His eyes darted from where they were tracing my lips up to meet my eyes. “Are they? Why is that, pretty girl?”

I swallowed and blinked. I wanted to enjoy the new nickname, but memories assaulted me, memories of the last time I saw my family.

The knock on the door.

The police officer telling me how sorry he was.

The funerals my grandparents helped me plan.

At some point during my drift into the past, Mr. Lane must have picked me up and carried me over to the small couch on theother side of his office. I was sitting across his lap while he held me cradled against his chest as I cried in a way I hadn’t in the five years since the day my entire family died. I reached up and clutched my boss’s shirt in both fists and cried harder.

“Shhh. I’ve got you, sweetness. It’s okay. I’ve got you, and I’m never letting you go.”

Chapter

Eight