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“You have plenty of time to stop.”
“I still have to revise a few things before I leave.” His fingers flew over his keyboard, those very intelligent eyes skimming the screen even as he rattled off things for me to do while he was gone.
I stuck my hand in my pocket and rolled the little cup around. I felt a bit bad for holding his caffeine from him on a busy day. Maybe I should hand it over.
I’d had my fun.
He frowned at me briefly before resuming his mad typing. “That’s enough for now. You can go, Miss Moon.”
I nodded briefly and stood. He wasn’t getting it with that attitude. The dude brought a whole new meaning to the words hot and cold.
Last night, he’d made out with me in his car and pretended he wanted to know everything about me down to my favorite color. Now he was back to all business. Or maybe he didn’t like that I’d been chatting with his brother.
Who even knew?
I shrugged it off. If he wanted to keep things strictly professional in the office, I could handle that. And then after tomorrow, he was officially back to being April’s problem.
“Miss Moon, don’t you think that skirt is a little…brief?” He sounded strangled.
My fingers curled around the doorknob. “It’s perfectly respectable.” Okay, maybe a little less so since I was almost six feet tall with my heels on. “I’ve seen a far shorter skirt on your father’s admin.”
It was a low blow and I knew he was sensitive about the whole situation with his dad. But right now, I wasn’t above taking shots where I could.
Not when he left me edgy and wondering what the hell his game was. If anything.
I could practically hear his jaw grinding. “She’s irrelevant.”
“And I’m only a temporary assistant, and it’s almost ninety-seven degrees today.” I opened the door and let it slam behind me.
Go ahead and fire me, PMS.
It was probably the best thing he could do for both of us.
Sixteen
I didn’t speak to him for the rest of the morning. He’d left the office promptly thirty minutes before his appointment and barely looked at me on his way by.
I finished his To Do list in record time, mostly because I was fueled by anger and a touch of guilt. Acclimating Smoky to his new home had probably killed some of his sleeping. But his general stick-up-the-assery was enough to keep me from feeling too bad about it.
There were no other clients due in the office until late afternoon so I escaped to the records room with my earbuds to play rage rock while I chipped my way through the 2000’s.
I was well into the L names before I flipped off my heels and ended up cross-legged on one of the executive chairs PMS had put in the room for me.
I’d moved on from my rage playlist to true crime. I was mentally knee deep in the horrific story of Willie Pickton when something white and gold landed in the center of the Lyle folder.
It rolled onto its side until the label for Preston’s caramel confection K-cup stared at me.
I looked up to find him looming over me, his knuckles resting on the table. His muscular forearms were tight with annoyance, the white sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he’d lost his suit coat—leaving him only in that damn vest.
My nipples instantly tightened.
Damn traitors.
I flicked out my earbuds and the ladies from the Morbid podcast stopped talking.
He tipped his head, his dark eyes gl
ittering. “What is that?”
