The F-Word

“Every night?”

“Every night,” I say firmly.

She frowns. Nibbles on her bottom lip. My eyes lock on the motion. When she stops nibbling, I drag my gaze to hers.

“I can’t let you bring supper in every night, Mister…Matthew.”

We’ve passed some sort of hurdle, though the use of my name is accompanied by a quick blush. Man. What is it with me? She touches the tip of her tongue to her lip, she chews on it, she blushes and, wham, my one-eyed monster gets to his feet and says hello.

“Fine. We’ll go out for dinner.”

“Go out?”

“Sure. We have to do that anyway. You know, get accustomed to being together in public.”

“Oh.”

“We can decide on the time tomorrow. In the office.”

“No,” she says emphatically. “In the office, we’ll continue being what we always were. Always are. Still are, still will be after the weekend.” She stops. “Nobody should know about—about this.”

She’s right. I have a couple of fairly large construction crews, but my office staff is relatively small. Bailey. Jack, our accountant. Beverly, the receptionist. Tony, who handles the endless paperwork you have to file to put up a house. We’re a tight group and there’s no way

I’d want them gossiping about the boss, even if all I’m doing is giving Bailey a helping hand in her private life.

“I agree. Work as usual, at the office. So I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Is that good?”

She nods, but I can see her hesitating.

“What?” I ask.

“What shall I wear?”

Women ask this question all the time. It usually means, are we going someplace expensive? Are we going to a club? Do I dress up? Dress down? Wear designer jeans or some short, tight thing that’s laughingly called a dress? I understand this. Not only have I been dating for years, I grew up with a sister. I can remember the overheard telephone conversations girls have.

Should I wear the blue skirt with the white top? Jeans with heels or with boots? Should I put my hair up or down? That sweater I bought, remember? Should I wear it over a cami?

I remember wondering what in hell a cami was, but I knew better than to ask.

Those conversations would go on and on, pretty much ad nauseum. Dudes think about what to wear maybe half an hour before getting into the shower. Worrying over what to wear is a female thing.

Except, looking at Bailey, I kind of know none of the usual stuff is going through her head. What she means is exactly what she’s asking. What should she wear? She’s clueless. And I’d bet there’s not much in her closet that she’d figure was appropriate for dinner out, aside from those awful suits.

As far as that goes, I’d be happy if she wore exactly what she’s wearing right now. The yoga pants that show off long legs and hint at what I suspect is a sweetly rounded ass. The little T-shirt that’s maybe half a size too small and just a little too short, and did I mention that when I kissed her and she got up on her toes, the shirt rode up just enough so I could feel the smooth skin of her belly against me?

The one-eyed beast gives my zipper another little nudge.

“Wear whatever you want,” I say. I sound a little hoarse, so I smile to counteract it, drop a brotherly kiss on the top of her head and get the hell out while I still can.

7

We are fine at the office the next day. In fact, we are too fine.

We’re back to me being Mr. O’Malley or sir, and though I waggle my eyebrows a couple of times by way of suggesting she’s not supposed to call me that anymore, my efficient PA ignores me.

Mid-morning, when she brings me a mug of coffee as she always does, I say a loud “Thank you” followed by a hissed “No more Mr. O’Malley, remember?”

Bailey frowns. She reaches for the notepad on the corner of my desk and writes something. Then she turns the pad towards me.