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Their petals flutter in spirals around a gold heart, framed against vivid green leaves.
I recognize the pleasant scent before he says the word.
“Gardenias,” I say absently.
Then his heavy gaze lands on me again.
The air between us thickens, and I can smell nothing but the gardenias and Roland damn Osprey.
“It’s your scent. You always smell like gardenias,” he whispers.
Holy hell.
My pulse turns frantic, quick, blinding.
I swallow. I’m trapped in searing blue eyes.
“Oh, it’s my s-skin cream,” I stutter lamely. “M-my f-f-favorite.”
And the gold medal in smoothness goes to me.
My rattling tire of a mouth is just what we need—a boring explanation, delivered in staccato.
But his piercing look softens, and our hands close, his fingers lacing with mine before drifting free.
“Do I make you nervous, Callie?”
You have no clue.
“A little,” I admit, breathing slowly before I tear myself away.
I have to.
I have to, because I can’t take the intensity of him and whatever this total lunacy is.
“Sometimes it feels like you notice everything about me, and I wonder why...”
“Being observant has been my job for so long it’s an ingrained habit,” he says.
“Oh. Sure. I guess that explains it.”
Not.
“Does it? You sound disappointed, Callie.” Again, that insistent brush of rough fingers on mine. Again, that soft stress on my name that makes it sound like the most erotic word ever spoken.
I stare at the gardenias, willing myself to get a grip and stay on earth.
To remember who I am, and who he is.
This is just a silly indulgence.
A large sadistic cat toying with his prey before he chews it up.
I have to remember that as much as it feels like I’m seeing the real Roland Osprey right now, I’m flat-out wrong.
That cruel, driven man focuses on his goals at the expense of all else.
That, more than anything, is the real Roland.
You can’t separate the two.
You can’t pretend one’s just a mask and the other is some deep, dark inner self.
Maybe this man who’s been so gentle with me today, so kind, could be an inkling of what he’d become, if he wanted.
That is, if he wanted to let go of whatever’s driving his obsessions.
But I doubt he does.
And I can’t pretend he wouldn’t use me for his own ends again in a heartbeat.
It sucks.
It aches to think that way because it forces me to realize that maybe—just maybe—I wanted something better from him.
I wanted something more.
I wanted to forget that he owns my company, my life, and he holds my career in his hands. Oh, and the glaring fact that he’s my boss, aka completely off-limits.
But I can’t.
So I only look up at him, forcing a wistful smile, and tug on his arm.
“C’mon. We’ll be late,” I say.
We board the bus just in time.
Roland gets a swat on the butt from his elderly crush for being tardy, and he answers it with a good-natured kiss on top of her head, making her blush and cackle like she’s fifty years younger.
I don’t say anything as we claim a few seats and settle in.
I just lean against the window, watching the sunset as the bus heads back to central Austin.
Roland seems content, and when I glance over, he’s on his phone. Probably still working, I think with a fond smile.
He really doesn’t have an off switch.
It’s been a long day. A nice one.
I’m a little tired, but not so drained that I’d skip pizza and a movie tonight to make the most of my hotel experience.
I’m pondering a nap when I feel his weight shifting at my side.
Like, really shifting, and then it tips, pressing into me so hard I jump.
“Roland?” My head snaps toward him.
Only to find him slumped over, asleep. My shoulder is the only thing stopping his heavy head, his messy dark hair spilling against my skin. Just like his breath.
Oh.
Oh, wow.
It’s hard to breathe.
I’m too captivated by his sleeping face.
I’ve never seen him this relaxed before, the lines of stress worn away, the guarded arrogance he wears sloughed off. It leaves behind this handsome, wicked man somehow turned soft.
He’s so everything my heart hurts.
I watch him as the night descends, painting the bus in shadows. I’m not sure when my own eyes start drooping, but at some point, it just gets harder and harder to keep them open.
Soon, I’m also slouching. Right up against the window with his weight on me like a heavy blanket. It shouldn’t be so comforting.
Maybe he does know right from wrong.
Because literally sleeping with my boss seems horrendous on paper. But the way it makes me feel?
Nothing’s ever seemed more right.
* * *
Someone’s shaking me awake.
“Callie. Callie,” a voice calls so nicely that it almost sounds loving.
My eyes open, and I blink up at the dusk-blue eyes hovering over me.
“Eh? Roland?”
“Hey. Not ready to give up on me already, are you?” I must still be half-asleep and dreaming because his smile is too sweet. It’s boyish. Not like anything I’d ever expect from him.
