His Temporary Assistant

The desk outside the glassed off corner office had to be mine. It had April’s energy all over it. I set my bag down on the corner, shot the canvas bag full of sticky sugar cotton under my desk, then leaned against the side.

Mr. Shaw was still standing in front of the elevators, his jaw tight and his eyes blazing, his long fingers holding the crumpled bag away from his suit.

Like a dog’s dirty business.

Panty alert again.

What was wrong with me? Had I hit my head and not realized it?

I kind of liked the heat in his gaze. And the attitude. Maybe even the sneer.

I’d assumed I would only find icy disdain from my texts and emails. And yet it was a miracle the glass around the office behind me hadn’t shattered from the force of his stare.

He was a rude man, even when he wasn’t saying a word. But rather than being infuriated by his annoyance, I was…eager.

Ready to get my spar on with a worthy opponent.

I crossed my legs at the ankle and gripped the side of the desk. Fake it till you make it, girl. “Would you like to inform me of my tasks for the day, Mr. Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire?”

Five

April had invited the devil into my serene workplace.

To be fair, I had no knowledge of any supernatural evil at Miss Moon’s command. Other than the fact that her so not business-appropriate dress had a slit up her leg to approximately just south of her panties, assuming she was wearing any.

It sure didn’t look like she was wearing a bra, considering her nearly indecent top. If she was wearing one, I couldn’t imagine what the contraption looked like.

Not that I was considering my assistant’s underwear choices. I was not that sort of boss. I was merely making note of several irrefutable facts.

One, Ryan G. Moon was inexcusably late, even if she had given me a bakery bag of goods. But that gesture lost points because the bag looked as if it had been doused with grease.

Two, Ryan G. Moon was not dressed in business wear. I couldn’t call her outfit casual either, since I doubted anyone wore a dress slit to there just to sit around the house.

Perhaps this was part of her calling it a “gig” last week. She’d forgotten what one actually did in an office, so of course she couldn’t dress properly for it.

Three, Ryan G. Moon’s hair was sheer black. Not dark brown. Pure, unadulterated black and escaping in endless rivulets down her nearly bare back from its messy twist.

Her back wasn’t actually bare. As far as material covering it, indeed. But she also wore crisscrossing chains bisected with miniature colored rocks. Before she’d turned to face me, I’d been momentarily blinded when a chunk of rock caught the sun and refracted a rainbow of light.

Perhaps that was her plan. Render me visionless, force sweets upon me, and then I would be at her mercy. Helpless to chide her about being late or being dressed like…that. Incapable of even questioning her ability with a spreadsheet or if she knew how to take dictation.

Instead, I stood rooted to the spot, caught in her intoxicating floral scent, reminiscent of a garden after midnight. Surrounded by forbidden flowers I didn’t dare pluck.

I really wanted to pluck.

I finally snapped out of her spell and strode into the security of my glass-walled office. And slammed the door.

The bright sunny day beckoned from beyond the wall of windows just behind my desk. Though I rarely ventured outside during the workday, I wanted to get the hell out of there before I did something…rash.

Now what?

She was still out there, waiting for instruction. That was likely a ruse too. She would wait for me to tell her to do something then she would grab one

of her chains and render me mute with some witchy stone.

I dropped the bakery bag on my desk and pressed a hand to my temple. I hadn’t had anything to drink today. This was likely dehydration. Not coffee—the delivery had not yet arrived, naturally—and not even water. Then again, I had a decanter of bourbon on the wet bar for clients that I’d never once touched myself.

Desperate times.