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“Look,” I say. “I’m no expert trekker, but I have done my fair share of hiking and I know enough not to pet the cute, furry monkey that may or may not have rabies. Anyway, like I said, this opportunity is too important to me to pass up because of some scary snake.”
“OK. Good.” He stands there for a minute, finally saying, “Sleep well.”
“You too.”
I’m only able to relax once he’s out of sight. Needless to say, it’s pretty awkward seeing your boss literally minutes after you’ve had a sexy dream about him. Especially when you prefer the dream him to the real him.
A sigh rolls out of my lips. “Dream on, sister.” Then I chuckle. That’s something Han always says.
Although in this case, it definitely suits. Greyson Storm is my boss, and quite a bit older. Men like him always have boring girlfriends/wives anyway, ones they are ridiculously devoted to. Then there’s the simple fact that I can’t afford to screw up this job, no matter how hot my boss is, or how, despite his guarded ways, his eyes rested on me a bit too long for someone who’s uninterested…
At any rate, any way you look at it, Har-Grey is not going to happen.Chapter 3Greyson
And here we are. Fucking finally.
Getting everyone the vaccines took way longer than expected. As did convincing Samantha that no, the vaccine would not give her and her future children and her future children’s children autism, Asperger’s and polio.
Fuck’s sake. I didn’t sign up for this.
I count off the crew as they exit the plane: there’s Manuel, Samantha, Jorge and… no Harley.
Great, another delay.
Back on the plane, I find her, passed out in her seat.
I’m about to give her a good shake, when I pause.
Even asleep, she’s damn hot: full lips parted ever so slightly, blonde waves the definition of bedhead, her mustard button-up showing just the right amount of tan skin to give me a hard-on.
Forget it.
She’s 21, too young and my employee.
The thought makes me grit my teeth with annoyance. I haven’t been this attracted to anyone in a while, but too fucking bad.
I don’t hook up with employees. Ever.
I’m no Emerson, who uses periodic office flings as proof he’s trying to show an interest in the business.
Giving Harley’s shoulder a light shake only makes her shift and murmur sleepily without opening her eyes. When I shake her harder, her eyes snap open.
“Hello?” she murmurs.
“Hi.”
She blinks uncomprehendingly at me, and I tell her, “We’re here. On time, too.”
She chuckles as she gathers herself up, a half-folded book on her belly. “Guess I deserved that.”
“Maybe.” I can’t help but smile, like an idiot. Something about being around her makes me feel lightheaded, stupid. Focus.
I gesture to the book she’s stowing away in her messenger bag. “Any good?”
Harley shrugs, then nods. “Using the adjective ‘good’ for Dostoevsky doesn’t seem at all right. He’s a master, and yet his books are depressing as hell.”
“Wasn’t his life, too?” I ask. “He had a gambling problem.”
Harley pauses, looking at me as if with new eyes. “Whoa. OK.”
“OK what?”
“Handsome and well-read. I like it.”
Jesus, what that voice does to me…
No way am I about to admit that I only knew that Dostoevsky fact because I did a project on the guy in Grade 11.
“Sorry, boss.” She rises, biting her lip as she sidles past me. “I shouldn’t have said the handsome part. Anyway, I’m taken. By my job.”
“Yeah.” I manage to force out a chuckle through my gritted teeth. “Of course.”
I frown at her back, but when she turns my way, pausing, her expression is impossible to read. “Time to go?”
I rip my gaze off where it’s unconsciously fallen—her lips—and jerk my head in some semblance of a nod. “Yeah.”
And then she goes, leaving me to glare at the seat she was in.
What the actual fuck? Who gives a fuck about Dostoevsky? Harley is off limits. End of story.
I pry open my fingers, which have been unconsciously squeezing my frustration into the plane seat.
My phone buzzes with a message, and looking at it only deepens my scowl.
Banged her yet? is Nolan’s latest message.
Dude, I type back. We just landed. Have some respect.
So you like her then, is his whip-fast response.
Go fuck yourself.
Whoa. Most times you’re cool with jokes? Busty Britney, anyone?
I shove my phone back in my pocket. Trust Nolan to screw things even further.
Yes, maybe back in the day we had our jokes about my intern Busty Britney and how she’d bake me a different muffin every day (carrot, banana, bran, cranberry, peach, a baffling amount of others), but this is different. I’m president now.
Nolan’s voice, unbidden, sounds in my head: You know Dad would go for it.
I stride off the plane and out. I’ve wasted enough time as it is.
Although there’s one thing I do know and I know it well: as much as I love and respect Dad, he’s the last person I ever want to become or even emulate.
