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"Emma."
"It's fine, Camila." I paste a smile on my face. "Honestly. I love taking care of Gran and Bets. And Zayne isnotmy type anyway. He's way too bossy for me."
He is bossy. And capable. And outspoken. And a million things I've never been. The man says exactly what he's thinking, regardless of who might hear him. He doesn't make apologies for who he is or care what anyone thinks. He's exactly who he is, no more and no less.
"Uh-huh," Camila says, not buying that for a minute. "He's not your type so much that you're hiding under the desk."
"I'm not hiding."
"Oh, yeah?" She glances up and then looks back down at me, a mischievous smirk on her face. "Then you won't mind if I'm sitting here talking to you when he comes back in, right?"
"What? Why? Is he at the door?" I squeak, trying to peer through the holes along the bottom of the desk to see. I can't, darn it all. We need more spy-worthy desks. These suck.
"Yep. He'll be walking through the doors any minute now."
"Oh, my God. Go!" I push the chair away from the desk, my heart pounding. "Before he figures out that I'm under here."
"Told you that you were hiding," she says, her laughter floating down to me as she rises from the chair.
Well, crap. I guess I walked right into that one.
"There you are."
Oh, crap on a cracker.
I spin around, holding my thermos like a deadly weapon as that familiar deep Southern growl sounds behind me. Dread shoots through me as soon as my gaze lands on Zayne stomping across the breakroom in my direction. So does an overdose of desire.
If looks could kill, I'd be dust. And if his jawline were any sharper, it'd be dangerous.
Sweet Baby Jesus. Some people really get all the luck. And by some people, I mean Zayne Carmichael, specifically. If he's not God's favorite, he's definitely in the top three.
The man is gorgeous with his messy hair and steely gray eyes. Our breakroom looks like a freaking closet with him filling it. And it's not his size, which is impressive enough, but hispresence. He commands attention without even saying a word.
"What are you doing in here?" I squeak. Yes, squeak like I've got something stuck in my throat. "You aren't supposed to be in here."
"Neither are you." One dark brow rises as he smirks at me. "But you've been avoiding me, so here I am."
"I have not," I lie.
"No? So you just so happened to be out of the office every time I've stopped by for the last week?"
"Camila needs lots of things." I inch along the counter, keeping space between us. "I'm her assistant. Assistants assist by running errands and getting things. It's in the job description, Zayne."
"Uh-huh. And skipping Adrian's last book signing because I was there? How do you explain that?" He keeps prowling toward me, his eyes locked on my face.
"I had things to take care of.Personalthings," I clarify. "It had nothing to do with you." Which is actually true. Gran had her annual MRI.
"Right. And hiding under the desk when you saw me comin'? What's your excuse for that one, baby girl?"
"I wasn't hiding. I was looking for something. How was I supposed to know you were here?"
"What were you looking for?"
"Something."
"What?"
"A tampon." It's the first thing that comes to mind. I don't know why. Maybe because the universe does, in fact, hate me.
