But I’m my father’s girl in more ways than one.
Dad’s always been a stubborn mule.
I take after him and maybe go a step or two further.
I won’t walk away from this. I won’t back down from the challenge.
I won’t let some media sleaze chase me out of my career after they hounded Dad out of his.
Roland Osprey and his bullcrap will not defeat me.
Tomorrow, he’d better be ready for a fight.
4
Sugary Blues (Roland)
She’s done the impossible.
I expected my second meeting with the mouse to be adversarial, but really, she surprised me by holding her ground.
People don’t surprise me often.
Intriguing, this Callie Landry, and I don’t just mean her looks scratching a fire into my blood.
She’s completely transformed from the unassuming girl I met in the airport lounge.
There, she was pretty in a casual college girl way before the flight, her coppery hair tinged with honey-gold undertones and pulled up in a messy twist, her fresh face glowing. No makeup for this girl.
That’s not the woman I met yesterday morning in the Just Vibing office.
The mouse squeak became the cat’s fucking meow.
A slim, formfitting grey pencil skirt. A matching tailored jacket. Black kitten heels that pushed her legs up, making her calves look leggy and sleek inside sheer stockings.
Beneath her jacket, a vivid reddish-pink blouse. That bold splash of color made her stand out against the neutral backdrop of the office, the collar unbuttoned over a slender throat, tempting my teeth.
Her lipstick, a wild cherry match that made her luscious.
That overripe mouth of hers became a focal point that made it absolute hell to focus on what she was saying.
I’ll fucking admit it. My eyes were glued to the crimson highlight of her lips as she shaped every hateful syllable meant to curse me into an early grave.
No. I wasn’t expecting that Caroline Landry, her grey eyes flashing from beneath the neat sweep of hair cascading down her shoulders.
It makes me wonder shit I shouldn’t be wondering at all.
Which Caroline Landry will walk into my office this morning?
The sultry kitten?
Or the church mouse who’d turned into a beautiful ice sculpture, staring with her lashes trembling and her tongue shocked still, fingers clutching at her notes.
I glance at my watch.
It’s 6:58 a.m.
The coffee service Wanda prepared sits on the corner of my desk. I prefer not to keep casual seating areas in my space. That encourages people to linger and try to get a little too familiar.
Staff meetings either happen elsewhere, or whenever someone has the audacity to drag a chair in here. I make sure they drag it right back out when I’m done.
Today, though, I’ve made sure there’s an upholstered leather captain’s chair waiting for her, positioned across the desk from me.
Am I already that stuck on her ass? So much that I care about her comfort?
Whatever.
She’d enjoyed her love affair with that chair in the airport lounge, after all. I think my brash interruption did her a favor.
Without it, she’d have slept through her flight.
Also, I do enjoy accommodating guests.
Including moving up an appointment she’s about to be late for. Another data point to remember. Caroline Landry isn’t exactly punctual—
“Mr. Osprey?” Wanda buzzes my intercom—and Callie’s already opening the door, right at seven on the mark. “Your appointment is here. Miss Landry.”
Over Callie’s head, I catch a warning look from Wanda at her desk—and that’s all the attention my EA gets when—yes.
Yes, fuck, I am definitely dealing with the kitten today.
She’s come to visit with claws out, teeth bared, ready to play.
Miss Landry’s in white this morning—a sleeveless silk blouse tucked into the narrow waist of a pleated white skirt that’s just three inches too long to qualify as a tennis skirt. It flirts with being too short for professional decency when it exposes those shapely, trim legs I can’t stop seeing hooked around my waist.
She’s accented it with a sky-blue cardigan—matching the blue stitched trim of the skirt, the glossy blue of her pointed pumps, and the neon cerulean of the hair comb pinning her honey-fire hair back into a neat chignon.
Damn this woman.
Damn her to hell—or at least to my bed in the next life.
And damn her one more time because her lips are a dream.
A dusty, glittery, natural pink sunset I want to bite.
All while she’s streaked her eyes in a blue-silver shadow that makes them smoky and bold.
I don’t even care that I’m staring way longer than any decent boss should.
It’s not just my steeling cock that makes me do it.
I’m assessing, and this look is her armor.
Starting with the monochromes that match the misty grey of her eyes.
It’s a declaration that she’s here, she’s ironclad, and anyone who has a problem with that knows what they can do with it.
Did she think, this time, that highlighting her eyes would distract my attention from her lips?