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If it all blows up in my face, I’ll deal with the aftermath, like I have everything else thrown my way. I’m a survivor, I’ve proven that time and time again, having to relearn how to live with my damaged body.
What’s a broken heart tossed into the mix?
CHAPTER TWO
BLAIRE
I’m thrilled for my bestie Vanna hooking up with Jake, the trash guy that really made an impression on her. Going by the hot looks bouncing between them last night at the bar, I knew she would be spending the night with him if only they got some time alone to get to know each other better. That’s why I paired up with Jake’s friend, Tom, even though I had zero interest in him.
Something I made painfully clear to him when he attempted to help me line up a pool shot by wrapping his big, sweaty arms around me and bumping his crotch against my butt.
Smirking, I shake my head. Jamming my pool stick into his gut, I think I taught him a lesson he might not soon forget. He might not have been a perfect gentleman for the rest of the evening, but at least he kept his big paws to himself.
I pull up the extensive benefactor list on the computer and begin cross-referencing that list with the one of those invited to the upcoming breakfast brunch scheduled before the charity golf tournament benefiting Breathe Better, the nonprofit Savannah and I work for. We thought the breakfast brunch was another great way to get everyone together to shmooze and socialize that weren’t actually interested in golf.
The brunch is shaping up to be a smashing success, but this part of it is rather tedious and my gaze strays to the director’s closed door.
Not that my thoughts are ever that far from him, especially not while at work. I know he wasn’t too impressed when my dad pulled a few strings to get Savannah and I moved to the top of the hire list, I just hope that we’ve proven to him that we earned our positions and have been an asset to Breathe Better in the months we have been working here.
He certainly has never been rude to us.
Butting into our conversation was probably the most forward I’ve ever seen him be.
Normally, he stays out of our conversations, and I didn’t even think he paid much attention to them. Now I can’t help wondering what else he’s overheard over the past few months. Who knew a man with crutches could be so sneaky and quiet?
Or so sexy.
I stop all pretenses of working and instead mull over the thoughts my older boss inspires. Many of those involve me wanting to fuck him senseless.
If he’s capable of that. In my wildly naughty fantasies, he’s very capable and quite willing.
It’s a miracle I’m not permanently red faced whenever Leland’s around given the number of times that I’ve imagined him naked and begging me to take him.
The first time I met him, I was wowed over by his striking good looks. His face is hard and chiseled with sharp cutting cheekbones, I wouldn’t mind testing to see if they would cut me or just draw me in even more.
I’ve never fancied blond men. Normally tall, dark, and handsome has been more my taste. Yet Leland has me spellbound; from his lovely blue eyes that I often get lost in, his deep, raspy voice that makes my thighs clench tighter with hisevery word, to the way the hard knots of his arm muscles bunch and swell under his shirts as he moves around the office on his crutches.
It's just such a shame about his condition. I don’t even know what’s wrong with him. If he has something like cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy, or any number of things.
Either way, it’s none of my business. I have a crush on the man. That doesn’t entitle me to his life history.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I try to get back to work. Fantasies are great but have no place at work. Especially ones featuring my boss in a starring role. No good will ever come of it.
My phone beeps and, glancing guiltily around, I reach under my desk and pull it out of my new purse. There’s no hard and fast rule about no personal calls during work hours as the entire office is very laid-back and casual; still, there’s no need to abuse that and make having a rule needed.
One look at the screen and I’m wishing I turned the dumb thing off.
It’s my mother.
Dread churns in my stomach and I stifle a groan.
After all the trouble she caused last night when I had to leave Savannah at the bar to come and rescue her from the casino, I assumed my mother would behave herself for a while.
Since she never calls or texts, unless she needs something, apparently, I assumed wrong.
Fearing to open the message and yet knowing at the same time that I can’t ignore it, I briefly close my eyes, cross my fingers, and swipe the message open. When I’m brave enough to peek, I again wish I would have put my phone on silent or maybe left it home entirely.
Life would be great if I could ignore all my problems.
