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“Mr. Williams,” I greet back, proud of how uninterested I sound, but my lips turn upwards despite myself.
Finally turning my head, he stands at my office door, arms folded over his chest, sans suit jacket with his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Pure fucking arm porn.
Goddammit.
Look away, Claire.
Look. Away.
But my brain doesn’t send the signal to my eyes fast enough, and they wander the length of his body—his suit pants and shirt tailored to fit every inch of him perfectly. With the top button undone, he looks perfectly fuckable.
Not that I would ever.
I would have.
But that was Claire from two weeks ago.
I’ve grown up since then.
He looks more relaxed this evening. His facial features don’t appear as harsh, yet there’s not a hair out of place. Just the appearance that the pole rammed up his ass has loosened an inch.
Maybe two.
But no one should have the right to look this good at seven in the evening.
I’m pretty sure my day’s makeup has faded, and my hair is tossed from trying to pull it out with stress.
I feel him looming, peering over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
I sit back on my heels, grinning over the drawings.
“Putting these pages on a string so I can hang them up.”
When I stand, he grabs one side, taking over when I struggle to reach high enough on the wall. He tacks both ends on either side.
Standing back, I cross my arms over my chest and smile.
He tilts his head, brows drawn tight.
“What are they?”
Tsking, I roll my eyes. “Self-portraits. The kids drew them.”
He scowls.
My brain suddenly catches up, and I spin around. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes narrow, lips pulled into the ghost of a smirk, assessing me. It makes me uncomfortable, and I fight with myself not to shift on my feet. I’m not giving him the victory of knowing he makes me uneasy in all the right ways.
“Are you going to stand here all night? I have work to do.”
“That is what you’re paid for.”
Holding back an exasperated growl, my fake smile never falters when I ask, “Can I help you with something?”
