“This was, what? Revenge?”
“Revenge? Now that’d be unprofessional,” she croons innocently.
The bullshit is so obvious, there’s no need to call it out.
Eliza Attleburn, straight-and-narrow professional that she is, used her job to getrevengeon me. That should piss me off even more, just like her playing coy.
But all my hot ire twists into something else that has me stepping inagain, closer to that perfume, closer to that face tilted up at me in challenge. Closer to this smart, ballsy woman who meets me at every step.
“You’re real pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” The question rumbles out of my chest.
A dare.
When those smooth, pink lips curve into a smirk, I move in. My hands hit the oak desk on either side of her thighs, my face coming inches from hers.
Her smirk wobbles, nostrils flaring on a quick intake of breath. But she doesn’t lean away. She sets those shoulders tighter and leansin.
Fuck.
“I’m incredibly pleased with the results.” Her breath brushes across my skin as her eyes flick between mine, long pretty lashes deceptively innocent around the hot challenge in her gaze. Then, Eliza being Eliza, she takes it fucking one step further.
Her tongue slips out, licking her top lip and dragging my attention with it. “You should be pleased, too. Tours are good.”
It’s a visceral effort not to close the distance and stop that smart mouth with my own. Then all that desire shoots straight to my cock, which is eager to help with that effort.
The smooth skin of her thighs taunt my fingertips, splayed inches away at the edge of the desk. A desk that’s old and sturdy enough to fuck someone over, hard and good.
Fuck.
My brain is two fragile seconds away from thinking about flipping this pretty little dress up and seeing exactly what smart words her mouth is capable of with my fingers playing on her pussy and my cock driving into her.
Would she be into that? Her face is still an inch from mine, thrumming with enough heat to suggest she?—
A car door slams outside, and those thoughts shatter like a sheet of ice. All at once, I’m aware of the wide-open windows. My team working out back. The giant parking lot right next to us.
I shove back from the desk and take an extra step to where it’s professionally acceptable to stand.
But the distance does nothing to cool the fire wisping through my veins. My voice is gravelly when I say, “You’re right. Tours are good for the farm.” I force myself to retreat to the door. “But they’re good for your content, too. So you’ll be coming with me, because I’m not suffering through a goddamn bachelorette party on my own.”
I shove myself out into the muggy, hot air, waiting for shame or regret to sink in. Because now it’s plain as day that no matter what I told myself when I grabbed those waterproof patches, I’m not treating Eliza like another team member.
I don’twantto.
But the regret never comes.
19
ELIZA
“So,tell me. What’s it like driving to your own funeral?”
Kitty is on one. She’s gone delirious from dehydration, ate too much candy on the trail, or tangoed with a bear and now, in her second chance at life, has decided to throw away her filter. Because there’s no other reason she’d be making a joke like this when I am, in fact, delivering myself to my own demise.
Or maybe I’m being too sensitive and overblowing her attempt to make light of my predicament, because I’m stressed out of my mind.
Yep. That’s probably it.
“I just hope you’re planning a good eulogy for me,” I reply, trying to lean into her humor.
