Page 65 of Saved By the CEO

Because then he’ll see it. He’ll see my cheeks turn pink, see me shift in my chair, see the way I’m actively trying to avoidlooking at his hands, his mouth, the place where his shirt collar meets his throat.

And if he notices, I’m scared he’ll start thinking about it too. And if I see even the slightest hint of heat on his face, I’m scared I’ll do something clinically insane, like climb over this very expensive desk and ruin both our lives. And if he lets me, I’m scared I’ll mistake the want for something more.

I cannot go down that road.

We need to go back to Mr. Bennett and Miss Michaels. Asshole boss and overworked assistant. Nothing more, nothing less.

I straighten in my chair and turn the laptop slightly toward him. “I’ve organized the notes by meeting. The investor comments are under the first heading, and I’ve separated the action points from the general discussion to make them easier to follow.”

Andrew looks at the screen, then reaches for the pen beside his hand. He turns it until the clip lines up with the edge of his notepad.

“Okay,” he says.

I click into the next document. “I also cleaned up the site visit notes. There were a few things that needed follow-up from Legal, so I flagged them in yellow. The timeline questions are marked in blue.”

Andrew leans back slightly in his chair, nodding.

I keep my face neutral and scroll to the next section. “There’s also the revised schedule for the week. I moved your Thursday call with Larkin to Friday morning because it conflicted with the legal review. You still have the board prep at three, but I shortened the internal meeting before it to twenty minutes.”

He doesn’t respond right away. When I finally glance up, he’s no longer looking at the laptop. He’s looking at me.

“What?” I ask.

Andrew’s jaw moves once. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

Then I look back down.

The office grows quiet, save for the soft tap of my keys and the distant murmur of voices outside his door. After a while, Andrew says, “Miss Michaels.”

Regret twists through me.

“Yes?”

He looks at me for another moment, unreadable. Then he nods toward the laptop. “Send me the final version when you’re done.”

“Of course.” I go back to typing, a little more careful this time.

Across the desk, Andrew picks up one of the printed reports and starts reading.

He doesn’t ask again. Instead, he gives me exactly what I wanted.

Cold professionalism.

And I fucking hate it.

My keys clatteras I toss them into the bowl by the door. Yes, it’s a burglar’s wet dream, and no, I don’t care.

Annie is splayed across our couch, watching a rerun of some nineties sitcom.

“Hey,” she says, not taking her eyes off the screen.

I walk up to the couch and stare down at her as the laugh track rolls in the background. I stand there for a full minute before she finally notices me.

“Good God, Carly.” She jerks, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me half to death.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are youstanding there like that? Are you possessed? Do I need to call Father Karras?”

“I’m the office harlot.”