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The dark curly hair and blue eyes were pretty damn good, but it was the smile that did it. It managed to be both cocky and adorably shy at the same time. Rumor had it that Lincoln was the only guy in the city who had a black book bigger than the Bible and yet not a single bitter ex.
Women loved him. All women. Including the ones he’d dated, slept with, and then discarded. It was one of life’s great mysteries.
“You guys have a meeting?” Lincoln was saying. “I can clear out. Thanks for the spare minutes, boss. I think you’re right. We’re definitely past due for another G-spot article.”
Lincoln gathered up his papers and pen like he hadn’t just dropped G-spot as casually as someone might mention deodorant.
“See you around, Emma,” he said with a flash of boyish smile before exiting Cassidy’s office.
Emma stared after him. Butterflies. That’s what Lincoln Mathis did to her. Butterflies. She hadn’t had those since . . . middle school?
“You’re drooling,” Cassidy muttered as he brushed past her to shut the door.
“That man . . .” Emma said.
“Was staring at your cleavage,” Cassidy muttered as he returned to his desk chair.
Emma hid a smile. This was a side of Cassidy she’d never seen. He was cute when he was disgruntled and jealous.
She sat across from him, not missing the way his eyes lingered on the aforementioned cleavage. Good call, Riley.
Except . . . she took a deep breath. This wasn’t Cassidy with whom she’d shared her shower this morning. This was Cassidy, temporary boss.
Don’t blend the two, Emma.
Emma took her story out of the folder and slid the papers across the desk. “My story. It’s late.”
He shrugged but didn’t reach for the papers. “No biggie.”
“Don’t,” she said in a warning tone. “Don’t treat me differently because of what happened over the weekend. We may have all sorts of personal stuff cluttering our working relationship, but you’re still my boss.”
He picked up a pen from the desk and clicked it. An irritating habit, but also a telling one. It meant he had something on his mind.
“About a third of Stiletto and half of Oxford didn’t get their stories in on Friday, Emma. I’m not jumping down their throat about it, and I won’t jump down yours.”
“I appreciate that,” she said slowly. “I’m also going to need you to respond to this next bit of news with the same professional impartiality.”
His eyes narrowed and the pen clicking stopped for a couple seconds before resuming. “Okay.”
She pressed her lips together. “I didn’t write about you.”
The pen clicking never stopped. “You changed story ideas?”
“No,” she said, her teeth nipping at her bottom lip nervously. “I still wrote about the ‘Twelve Days of Exes,’ as discussed.”
She forced herself to meet her eyes. “You’re just not one of them. I found someone else to fill the twelfth spot. A guy from a few years ago . . .”
Click. Click. Click.
He watched her. Then: “Okay.”
Emma waited for the rest of his thought. But it never came.
“Okay? That’s it?”
He set his pen aside. Finally. Then leaned forward. “Emma, you want me to treat you like I would the rest of my employees. I want to treat you like the rest of my employees. And if one of them told me they’d chosen not to write about a specific aspect of their personal life, I wouldn’t bat an eye.”
His statement was so rational, so refreshingly adult, that Emma breathed a sigh of relief.
