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Miles stands in the hallway, his suitcase next to him, wearing a plain gray T-shirt that doesn’t help my wayward mind. The fabric’s color highlights his muscles, his broad chest, and the flat sheet of his abs.
His eyes narrow slightly when he turns to me. The corner of his mouth twitches, whether in a grimace or a smirk. I’m not sure.
“Nice to see you again, Layla,” he says, not even looking at me.
“And you,” I reply. “I hope you had a good flight.”
“Can’t complain,” he grunts.
“I’ve made us some lunch,” Mom goes on. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Finally, Miles looks at me fully. His eyes get that intense look from a year ago—the look I devoured as he leaned closer and closer, then finally pressed his lips against mine.
“Starving,” he says huskily.
I turn to avoid his gaze. I can’t look at him when he’s staring with so much implication.
“I’ll set the table,” I say, striding through the house.
“Let me show you to your room,” I hear Noah say behind me.
My hands tremble as I lay out the plates and cutlery. Taking a moment, I close my eyes, reminding my flaring nerves what’s at stake. Mom’s happiness. Her marriage. Her chance at love and the life she deserves.
Everything will be ruined if Mom and Noah ever find out what happened. Worse, if Miles and I kissagainor do more. I can’t let that happen, even if it’s what every impulse in me screams for—his touch, lips, desire, his everything. All I can do is pray he doesn’t want the same.
>One click Hot For My Step-Uncle<
FALLING FOR MY MOM’S BOSS
CHAPTER ONE
Madison
I carry Mom’s hot cocoa into the living room, placing it on the coffee table. She lies on the couch, her hand laid across her forehead like a painting of a Victorian lady who’s had enough.
“Thanks, Maddie,” she says, sitting up with a yawn.
It’s late, the lamps are lit, and the open curtains of our apartment are showing the lights of the opposite building. Our neighborhood isn’t the best, but thanks to Mom’s hard work hopping from job to job, it’s not the worst either.
She has a new job that pays better than any of her previous ones. She’s assistant to a man called Jacob Jennings, the CEO of a large media distribution conglomeration—websites, TV stations, radio, and podcasts all flowing from him. As an aspiring journalist, the job excited me more than her others. Then I made the mistake of looking up Jacob Jennings online.
As Mom sips on her cocoa, I drop onto the armchair, trying not to think about forty-two-year-old Jacob, with that severe look in his pale eyes. They’re blue, but they almost look white as he stares at the camera, arms folded in one shot, his firm muscles straining the fabric of his suit.
His lips are flat, not smiling. Except, if I starereallyhard, I’m sure I can see the beginnings of a smirk. Like he finds the world funny but won’t grace us with a smile.
His reputation is one of honesty and integrity, which triggers even more silly thoughts in me. Thoughts like what a great couple we’d make, me with my little website, making strides with my own projects, and Jacob at my side, fighting for the truth beside me.
“What are you thinking about?” Mom asks, laying her cocoa down and brushing her hair aside. Hers is straight and blond. Apparently, I get my brown hair from my dad, though I’ve never met him.
“Nothing,” I murmur. “Just tired.”
I can’t tell Mom about the thoughts I’ve harbored for Jacob. I can’t afford to tell her about the secret dreams which feel real… dragging my fingernails down the front of his shirt, feeling his muscles beneath, staring up at him, and seeing lust in his expression.
Yeah, right.
I’m sure billionaire CEO Jacob Jennings is justwaitingfor a nineteen-year-old wannabe journalist. I’m sure he’lllovehow curvy I am and willadoremy lack of experience. I bet he doesn’t haveanysupermodels or actresses or socialites and othernot-me’sthrowing themselves at him all day long.
Sarcasm takes the sting out of it, sometimes.
