Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
She laughs, and I risk my life by asking, “Sound like anyone you know?”
“Maybeeee . . . ,” she drawls out, holding her thumb and finger a tiny inch apart.
I reach out to move them a good three inches apart. “Me too. She’s perfect, just the way she is.”
Chapter 15
WREN
“Morning, Joanne.” I greet her as I pass by on the way to my office, hurrying because I’m a bit late after my night “sleeping” by the creek. I swear I’m walking the same as always, not skipping with happiness or bowlegged from hugging Jesse’s hips, but Joanne’s mild smile instantly morphs into something much more curious.
“Well, gooood morning to you, Wren.” What should be an easy, standard greeting that we exchange daily has numerous questions intertwined into it today.
“Uh, thanks.” I keep my pace, not wanting to answer any of the things she wants to ask. She calls my name and I speed up a bit, my short legs fueled by avoidance to move as fast as they can. “Lots to do today, can’t talk. Sorry!” I call back over my shoulder.
“But—”
I open my door, planning to escape to the relative safety of my office, but realize too late that I should’ve listened to Joanne.
“Good morning, Wren.” Oliver is sitting in my office, making himself at home in one of my chairs with an ankle resting on the opposite knee. He lets his eyes drip over my body from head to toe. I feel naked even though I’m dressed professionally in a knee-length skirt, short-sleeve blouse, and ankle boots. His lips curl up into an appreciative smile that feels like a physical touch. And not in a good way. “I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by without calling. We have some things to discuss, and in-person seemed . . . preferential.”
I would’ve gone with painfully uncomfortable given my desire to slam the door shut, run back down the hall and out to the parking lot, and drive away to anywhere there’s not a near-stranger who heard me orgasming looking like he wants an up close and personal repeat performance.
But, you know, that’s just me. To-ma-to, to-mah-to.
Fighting my fight-or-flight instinct, I move around my desk, giving Oliver a wide berth, or as much as I can in my overgrown coat closet of an office. I sit down, hiding behind the breadth of fake wood as I put my purse in a drawer for safekeeping. “It’s fine. Did you find out something about the construction company’s financials?”
It’s a straightforward attempt to stick to a professional topic, one I pray works.
“Yes, actually, but about the other night—”
Shit.
I interrupt to make one last-ditch effort to avoid this topic. “I’d like to apologize for any misunderstanding. I was distracted and should’ve given more attention to our conversation,” I say evenly.
Oliver’s grin grows, and there’s no question, I’m out of luck. But Mom didn’t raise a little bitch, so I lift my chin, ready to take the hit.
“Distracted? I’ll say your focus was centered exactly where it should’ve been. I know mine was.” He shifts his hips as he uncrosses his legs, spreading his thighs to emphasize his point. His dick might as well be pointing right at me from behind his tailored slacks.
I have to address this or we’re never going to work together effectively, but it’s a delicate dance so I don’t piss Oliver off. That won’t serve the people of Cold Springs or get Township completed on schedule.
Meeting Oliver’s eyes directly, I quit tiptoeing around and bluntly say, “A friend came by. I shouldn’t have answered the phone for obvious reasons. It was unprofessional of me, and I would very much like to get back to dealing with the Ford divorce and Township’s construction.”
I don’t apologize. Apologies are sacrilege in the law community, a binding admission of wrongdoing and a submissive showing of your neck, both wrong in virtually every scenario.
He eyes me carefully for a long moment, then nods. “I’m looking forward to working together closely on this.” There’s still a thread of inappropriateness to the simple statement, but given how over the line I went, baby-stepping it back will have to do. But then he adds, “Just a friend?”
Sigh. I’m not sure how to answer that. Jesse and I are definitely way more than friends, but even with all the emotional dumping last night, we didn’t exactly define our situation moving forward.
The pause without an answer tells Oliver everything he thinks he needs to know. “I see. Well, while he’s certainly a lucky man, he’s a stupid one.”
“Excuse me?” I say sharply.
Oliver shrugs, unconcerned that I’m offended at his assessment. “If someone is lucky enough to be your ‘friend’ and be granted access to touch you in a way that drew those sounds from your sweet mouth”—his eyes drop to my lips and his tongue slips out to wet his own as though we’re about to kiss even though there’s a desk between us—“he’d have to be stupid to not make it crystal clear how special you are to him.”