Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
When I first got here, Channing gave me a mini tour and warned me that “Sarge ordered no one to bother him.” Like every order Rafe gives me, I wanted to disobey right away. I was tempted to stick my head in and wave hello. Pretend to punch in. Invade his space the way he’s invaded my brain.
Employee and boss. Boss and employee. That’s all Rafe and I are.
I’m being a bad employee. I knew I was pushing it with the red beans and vegan comments. It’s almost like I want to make him mad. Tweak his buttons. What would it be like if he lost control?
No, no, I don’t want that. It’s time I stop playing and fulfill my duties. Any other employer, and I’d have wowed them by now. Instead, I tested Rafe’s boundaries, stirred him up, and served him cold hotdogs.
Catch more flies with honey, my mémère would say. Rafe isn’t a fly, he’s a big, rude, gorgeous man, with tanned skin and big, rough hands that I want to feel on my skin.
Except, no, I don’t want that. I want to smack him.
“You want meat?” I mutter, pacing in front of his desk. “I’ll get you meat. I’ll make a turducken and shove it up your ass.”
“What the hell’s a turducken?” Rafe growls, and I yelp, whirling. He stands behind me, his muscle bound shoulders filling the door. For a big guy, he moves quietly.
“It’s a Creole specialty,” I say, trying to slow my pounding heart. “A deboned chicken stuffed into a deboned duck. And then the duck is stuffed into a turkey.” And then I’ll stuff it up your ass, I add silently.
Rafe strides to his desk and slants me a look that tells me he heard my unspoken comment. “So I’m the turkey?”
“If the duck fits,” I return sweetly.
He turns away, straightening his laptop on his desk, even though it’s already straight. Is that a curve in his cheek? Is he smiling?
Does he like it when we fight as much as I do? I’m hot and bothered, my nipples hardened points beneath my pink satin and lace bra.
I realize I’m standing in front of his desk with my hands folded like I’m a student called on the carpet. I transfer my hands to my hips and try to regain my rage.
My anger is right there, waiting for me. “What the heck was that?” I snap, abandoning any pretense of sweetness. “I knew you would be rude, but this is over the top. You didn't even let them finish my food.”
“You make it sound like that’s a cardinal sin.”
“It is.”
Rafe keeps pretending to organize his desk. If he’s hoping he can count to ten and we’ll both calm down, he’s going to be disappointed. When he looks up, I’m still glaring at him.
His beautiful face has absolutely no effect on me. None whatsoever.
His dark eyes narrow. He stalks around the desk—but I don’t back up, even though my head has to tilt back, so I can keep glaring at him.
Once he’s in front of his desk, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against it. Even half sitting, he’s tall enough to glower down at me. “We have a no fraternization policy in our company. The way you and Channing were flirting, I figured you both need a reminder.”
What. The. Heck? “Excuse me.” I hold up a finger. “I don't think that Channing's the one with the problem.”
For a second, his face becomes a scarily blank mask. “Are you saying that you’re the one who was flirting—”
“No,” I snort. “Not him. Not me.” I point my raised finger at his chest. “I’m saying it’s you. You’re the one with the problem, and we need to deal with it. Right now.”
Rafe
Her finger hovers in the air between us. She’s barely a foot away. In the small space of my dark office, her decadent scent slips around me like velvet ropes. She smells like vanilla and layers of caramel, cinnamon and a little cayenne. There’s not much light in my office—I chose a secure space with no windows—but the harsh glow from the desk lamp is enough to illuminate her perfect face. Her brown skin glows, lustrous as a pearl. Her eyes are a stunning blend of brown and green in dark rims.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Lightfoot?” She uses my last name because I used hers. I’m trying to put some distance between us, but it’s not working. The more I retreat, the more I ache to clutch her close. To touch that sweet feminine body of hers and make her breath catch in her throat. Choke on my name.
“Rafe,” I mutter. “Call me Rafe.”
“Rafe, then,” she says in a softer tone, and my head jerks up like I got a bullet to the chest. For once, she follows orders, and my name on her lips almost knocks me down. “Like I was saying, we've got some unresolved business. We better resolve it if this is going to work.”