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“Miss Poe, I’ll be blunt. You sent me the most unprofessional, inappropriate, frankly crazy fucking email I’ve ever received in my whole career.”
I blink, totally dumbfounded by what he means.
“Don’t even try. We both know you’re a depressingly bad liar.” He crosses his arms again, leans back in his chair, and tilts his head up, spearing me with those stern earthy eyes. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?” I’m about to lose my shit. I’m so not in the mood for guessing games today. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me to, including working two full-time jobs. I get your coffee, your stupid rolls—which I had to buy twice today because the first batch spilled—you’re welcome. I always reply to your messages promptly even when I’m not on the clock.”
I run out of breath, giving him the opening he needs.
“And you think that justifies the bullshit you pulled Saturday?” he growls.
What did I pull on Saturday?
“You’ll have to be more specific. With the workload you’ve belted me with, I’m running on four hours of sleep most days.” And dealing with ridiculous messages from my loser ex. “From what I recall, I spent most of the day writing copy for an ungrateful boss.”
“Cute. You expect me to believe that’s all you were writing?”
“Huh?”
“You weren’t writing copy, were you?”
What the hell? Was he spying on me somehow when I spent five minutes working on poetry?
“We’ve been through this. You do not own me. What I do away from here or on my breaks is none of your concern.”
“It is when it’s wildly inappropriate and you send it to me attached to an ordinary work email,” he snarls back.
Seriously, what is he talking about?
I cock my head, giving him a look that warns I’m a stick of dynamite with a fuse getting dangerously short.
“Mr. Burns—Lincoln—this would be way easier if you’d just tell me what the hell you’re talking about. I have no earthly clue. And if you think I’m lying, forget the ninety days. I’ll walk right out this door without waiting for a pink slip.”
His eyes soften as he uncrosses his arms and wheels his chair closer to his desk. He lays his arms on the sleek wood and leans forward.
“A lesson she never learns. And so she burns,” he says darkly.
Wait. What?
I thought he didn’t like poetry? Hearing this man quoting anything literary sounds obscene. Certainly NSFW in that angry smolder he calls a voice.
The words coming out of his mouth are filthy, too, making me blush.
They’re also—familiar? Startlingly familiar.
But before he even speaks, my heart forgets how to beat.
“Burns who? Burns what? Burns me,” he quotes slowly. Lethally. “But he’s her king. Her fling. Her boss. Her loss.”
Screaming.
Inwardly, I’m flipping screaming my insides out.
My throat closes. I grasp the sides of my chair so I don’t fall out of it. The blood rushes away from my head.
For a split second, I think I might pass out. Thank God I’m already sitting.
Deep breath.
I think about the other lines, too shameful to even dwell on.
So they fall down in bed.
With every thrust the darkness falls away.
With every thrust.
Oh, God.
He’s read it all and he’s disgusted.
And honestly, he should be.
I need to follow through on my threat to quit.
Resign right now.
That’s the only way I fix this.
There’s no crawling back after this. But first, I’ve got to stop crying.
I cover my face with my hand. Hot tears won’t be held back and they come pouring down my cheeks.
This time, it’s not a dream, and I’ve got no hot imaginary knight to save the day.
My boss knows my deepest, darkest desires.
He knows my pain.
He knows my art, my life, my soul revolves around him.
10
Fancy Unto Fancy (Lincoln)
Here we fucking are.
Me, Nevermore, and the height of absurdity.
If she weren’t already in tears, I’d laugh.
My temporary assistant-slash-copywriter named Poe sent me angsty poetry about bedding me.
Now that I know she’s interested, I’m torn between telling her we should find out just how much color I can burst into her world and apologizing for being the biggest dickhead alive.
I don’t even know if sending me that file was an honest mistake.
The lump of pure guilt in my stomach doesn’t care.
I have her working two jobs. I’m the man putting her under the gun to market an important new line. Hell, I even have her chasing down my damn rolls for Wyatt.
Mistakes happen. I’m a forgiving man, but we need to talk about this.
Still, there’s no denying it would be a far bigger deal if she’d sent that attachment to someone else, though.
Dakota hides her red face in her hands. The neckline of her dress dips into her cleavage as she moves, drawing attention to round globes I hate that I want to maul.
Her rough sniffle keeps my dick in check.
Damn. She’s going to pieces and it’s my fault.
