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I wonder if I’m crazy and trying to brush it off.
Anyone would stare at a girl with her mouth painted like yellow flower petals, right? It doesn’t mean anything.
I don’t want it to mean anything.
He’s my boss.
Asshole supreme.
A horrible person who can be considerate the same way a broken clock is right twice a day.
Nothing more.
Not even if it makes me shiver when I see his ice-cold eyes smolder for a few razor-sharp seconds every time he looks at my lips.
Not even if there’s something in his voice—whenever he’s not growling like a bear—that feels like he’s plucking some intimate string inside of me.
Not even if he looks like the perfect heart-slayer in his suits, his vests, his tall, powerful body as sharp and elegant as a honed blade.
He drives me to distraction.
He makes me stupid.
He scares me to death.
...so isn’t it only fair that I grind his gears with a distraction or two?
That’s what I tell myself as I pick out a few obnoxiously loud shades and march to the register, already plotting how I’ll pair them with outfits and accessories so I’m a walking pop of color and not rocking circus clown vibes.
A smile curls my lips.
Yeah, King Roland won’t even know what hit him.
I try not to snicker or think too hard about why I’m really doing this as I pay and head home.
It’s nothing.
Nada.
Just a little innocent playfulness with my arch-nemesis.
I mean, I’m choosing the safer, adult option here. I’d rather tease him than hunt him down and plant his head on a pike.
* * *
Once I’m home, I arrange my new loot in the front of the lipstick rack in my cosmetics drawer, lining them up in a nice color wheel.
Picture perfect, and I prove it by snapping a photo and sending it straight to Mr. Hunting Hawk himself.
Behave, I text with the pic. I’m stocked up on fresh ammo, and I promise you I’ll pick a new color for every single conference.
Considering it’s after hours, I don’t expect it when my phone pings with his reply.
Roland: You’ll do it even if I’m a perfect gentleman, Snoopy.
I grin, my fingers typing.
Like hell. You aren’t capable of being a gentleman and we both know it.
Roland: I’ll do my best.
I snort at my screen while warning sirens screech in my head.
I’m having way too much fun with this already and that’s scary.
Your best is other men’s worst, I text back.
Then I lean against the cabinet. On a whim, I snag the screaming cerulean-blue lipstick and slash it over my mouth. I pull my hair down from its after-work bun, shaking it around my face and shoulders so the matching blue streaks show.
I take a quick snapshot, flashing my fingers in a peace sign and screwing my face up pop star style, one eye squinted and tongue out.
Quick, bossman. Who am I? You get one guess.
I’m laughing hysterically by the time I hit Send.
Roland: Impeccable Easterly Ribbon impression. I’m impressed with what you can do with that tongue.
Oh. My. God.
He didn’t—but he did.
I’m stunned with his devil innuendo for all of ten seconds before the Easterly part gnaws at my brain.
My wide smile vanishes.
That’s oddly sobering.
Because what if I’m more like Easterly than I want to let on?
What if I’m falling into a dangerous illusion with a dangerous man? Even if he’s not an outright abusive predator like Haydn, Roland Osprey is plenty dangerous in other ways.
I shove the thought aside, looking down at my screen with a hefty sigh as my fingers type.
This tongue needs a glass of wine, and then I’m turning in early. I’m sure you’re working late. Good night, Mr. Osprey.
Roland: Good night, Callie.
Dang.
I still don’t know the exact moment when he got so familiar with my name. He’s mostly calling me Callie now, instead of Miss Landry, isn’t he?
I don’t know how I feel about it, either.
I don’t know how I feel about anything.
So I make my brain shut up, put my phone down, and skip the wine for an early bedtime.
I can’t think about Roland Osprey if I’m asleep, can I?
I just have to worry about him invading every last one of my dreams.
* * *
Turns out, I was right to worry.
I can very much think about Roland Osprey and nothing flipping else while I’m dead to the world.
Beautiful.
I don’t quite remember what I’m dreaming when I snap awake the next morning with my heart in my throat, coming to life before my alarm starts blasting eighties music.
I just know there were impressions.
A certain aftershave that smells the same way rich gold bourbon shimmers.
A presence he has, always crowding me with mile-wide shoulders, but not in a claustrophobic way.
A pair of lashing sea eyes lingering on my mouth like he’s counting the seconds until he sinks his teeth in.
Holy hell.
He’s always staring at my mouth, until I almost feel him touching me. He puts terrible thoughts into my head, like what it would be like to abandon all reason, undo his belt, and let my tongue find out just how big that ego of his is.
