“Technically I work for your assistant.” I held up a finger. “Therefore, you need to apologize for yelling at me about talking to strange men. You’re not a stranger. You are perfectly safe—if a little sweaty and anxious. You should try eating some cheese.”
“So you knew who I was when you …” He faltered.
“Called you hot?” I gave him a pained smile.
“You catcalled me,” he said, horror slowly dawning on his unfairly symmetrical face.
I was indignant. “I most certainly did not.”
“I’m your boss.” He was incensed.
“Don’t act huffy. I’m the one who should be offended. I work for you, and you didn’t know who I was.” I jammed my finger in his muscular chest.
“Stop changing the subject.” He slapped my hand away.
“Stop falsely accusing people,” I retorted. “I wasn’t catcalling you. I said that you were looking good. I didn’t yell out, ‘Clap those cheeks’ or ‘Daddy, let me hit that.’ Now that’s a catcall.”
He sucked in a breath.
“I was complimenting your form,” I said, enunciating the words. “Your running form. But don’t worry, I take it back.”
“You can’t take it back.”
“I take back my compliment.” I did a pantomime of snatching something out of the air in front of his face.
“Fine, as long as you don’t catcall strangers anymore.” He wagged a finger in my face like he was scolding a child.
I batted at his hand.
“You’re not the boss of me.” I sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk.
“Yes, I literally am your boss.” His eyes were dark.
“You grouchy, depressing Manhattanites will not suppress my Florida sunshine,” I declared. “I will continue to bestow compliments. In fact, I’m giving you a new compliment right now.”
His lips thinned.
“You have a very lovely deep voice and nice eyes,” I said angrily. “Does anyone else here think he has beautiful eyes?”
Everyone in the park was studiously ignoring us.
“Well, you do. Beautiful green eyes. So there. And you’d look better if you smiled.”
2
GRAYSON
Iwatched the short, dumpy redhead—your assistant—trudge in a plodding jog down the path.
A woman screamed as my assistant told her she liked her sunglasses.
Who does she think she is?
I dug through my memories for a name. Lexi Collins. My secretary had mentioned hiring another assistant a few months ago. I hadn’t realized it would be that glitter-covered girl.
A sea of freckles on her face, short—extremely short—easy for someone—a man—to pick her up and carry her away, Lexi Collins was a problem.
I fought an ugly battle with myself not to follow Lexi, to make sure she wasn’t kidnapped.
