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Because you’ll hurt her, Christianson!
I’m not out of her system at all. My pulse increases at the thought. It’s all a front—the bravado, the sass, the talk of scratching itches. She’s protecting herself. It’s a bit backward, if you ask me. How is she going to find Mr. Perfect if she shies away from any man she’s drawn to? I sit up straight. She’s drawn to me. And she’s brushed me off because she’s convinced I’ll hurt her. I hold my breath for a few seconds, drumming my fingers on my desk. Will I? I don’t want to but . . . will I? I toss that question aside and focus on the fact that I’m obviously not out of her system.
Unlucky for her, she’s not out of my system, either.
The gloves are off.
I power on with work, glancing at the clock frequently, counting down the minutes until everyone has left for the day. And once I know the coast is clear, I leave my office, but I don’t head for the elevators. I head for Gina’s desk.
And turn on her computer.
Then scowl at the prompt for a password.
“Motherfucker,” I breathe, resting back in her chair. I like to think I know my Gina inside out. So . . . what password would she use? My fingertip strokes over my Cupid’s bow as I ponder that. “Ah.” I fly forward and tap in GORGEOUS, mentally crossing my fingers as I hit enter. Her home screen appears. “Yes,” I yell, pulling myself closer to the desk. I comb through the files for anything Lainey related, not giving much thought to what I’ll do once I find the information I’m looking for. I just feel like I need it. But I can’t find it. “Fuck it,” I curse, grabbing my mobile and calling Gina.
“What’s happened?” she asks urgently when she answers.
“Nothing. Nothing’s happened.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
I throw my mobile a dirty look. “I need something.”
“Sense,” Gina tells me. “I sense you need some sense.”
She isn’t wrong. “Employee files, where will I find them?”
“Why?”
“Gina, don’t question me, just answer my question.”
“No.” She’s adamant.
I don’t like an adamant Gina. “Can I remind you who’s the boss?” What’s wrong with people, for the love of all things boss-like?
“No, you can’t. You always pull that card when you’re about to do something stupid and want my help.”
“I never do anything stupid,” I retort, offended.
Gina snorts. I won’t ever admit she’s perfectly within her right to. The woman has seen me through some pretty hefty scrapes over the last seven or so years. Not to mention my fuck-up a few months back after I got myself arrested. I’m blaming that on Gina. She shouldn’t have put my bitch of an ex-wife through, not that I could have expected her to know it was Annabella, since the conniving cow told Gina she was my GP. But still. “No.” She laughs. “No, Ty Christianson is the consummate professional.”
“I am.”
“Of course.” She laughs louder, and I scowl.
“I’m a businessman, for Christ’s sake. Good businessmen do what it takes.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, you are missing the point. I’ve never overstepped the mark. I’ve been pulled over the mark.”
“Oh, Ty.” Gina is bordering hysterical now. Then she quickly gathers herself. “The answer is still no.”
“Gina.”
“I suspect I know what you’re doing, and I’m not going to let you.”
“Who’s the boss?” I yell down the line, my frustration uncontainable.
“Me, that’s who.”
I hunch over the desk and clench my fists, pushing them into the wood. “Tell me where to find the file.”
“It’s on my computer, and I’m not giving you the password.”
“I already figured out the password,” I answer, sounding all too smug for a man at a woman’s mercy. “Gorgeous.”
She inhales loudly. “You hacked my computer?”
“It’s my fucking computer, Gina.” I roll my eyes. “Now tell me where to find the file.”
“No. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“No, you won’t, because you’re fired.”
She hangs up. She fucking hangs up on me.
“God damn you, Gina,” I yell, slamming the phone down. But I’m a man on a mission. I start clicking through every file on the desktop, scanning keenly for anything to give me a hint. It’s not long before I spot a file that’s labelled “HR.” Ooh, that’s promising. I click it and find a list of departments within Christianson Walker. I smile, excited, and click on Sal’s name. And then Lainey’s name glows at me like a beacon wanting to be found. “Bingo.” Smiling smugly, I open the icon.
And it all appears in front of me—her name, her date of birth, her address, and lots of other stuff that I don’t care much for. A quick calculation tells me she’ll be thirty-six next month. What? I fall back in the chair. Thirty-six? I’m stunned. I wouldn’t have put her over thirty.
