Is this some weird backhanded insult? Is he calling me a dumbass?
“You know what I’m talking about. And because you’re not a dumbass, that means you’re a terrible liar,” he growls.
Holy hell.
I scratch my chin, averting my eyes before I meet the steel trap of his gaze again.
“Mr. Burns, I have no fricking clue what you mean. But let’s say I did—which I don’t—but if I did, we’d be even because you dug first...wouldn’t we?”
“No, ma’am. We are so far from even you couldn’t get there by jet.” He lifts one big hand and places it in the other, loudly cracking his knuckles.
“Can you just tell me what you think I did?” I sputter. “I just...I don’t like games. Spit it out.”
“Stalking the boss is a serious offense.”
My heart skips. I hate how my blush betrays me more than words ever could.
“What? Because of my Google-fu?” An exaggerated laugh falls out of me. “Maybe don’t wind up on the internet and I won’t read about you?”
I know I’m playing with fire. But I’m going to make him say it.
If he saw me, I want to hear it from his lips.
“How about you and Tweedle Dum following me to the park on your day off? Ring a bell?” His voice is a quiet storm.
Yeah, I’m so not ready.
His look cuts me in two, so hot and glaring it’s like he’s stripping me naked right here in this office.
“The park...what makes you think it was me?”
“You’re whispering, for one, and that isn’t something you do,” he says, stabbing up a finger midair. “Two, you don’t think the blond ponytail gave it away? I’d know that hair anywhere, Nevermore. Do not bullshit me.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I mutter, waving my hands frantically. “That’s your evidence? A blond chick in a city of almost a million people happens to be at the park with you, so it must be me? And that must mean I’m stalking you? I’m in awe. I never thought I’d meet Sherlock Holmes.”
He isn’t impressed.
Neither am I, honestly.
The bosshole leans forward and stares into my eyes.
“Sweetheart, it’s not just the hair. Although it’s a perfect platinum-gold shade I haven’t seen too often—”
“So, you like my hair?” I stare at him.
He rolls his eyes.
“Not the point. You’re the only woman who wears a black dress with silver corded straps while biking. Were you going for a joyride or out to a cocktail party?”
“If it were me—and I haven’t said it was—but if it were, the options are joyride or the library. Keep it straight.”
His gaze only deepens until it’s bone-deep.
“Nevermore, I’m not a betting man. However, if I were, I’d bet every dollar I own that only you have a raven inked across your shoulder,” he says.
Ouch.
Busted.
He knew, and he’s toying with me now.
I touch my shoulder, making sure my sleeveless dress is thick enough to cover the tattoo. It is. I’ve never shown it off at work.
He smiles.
“It’s a nice accent on a well-toned body on a sunny day. Between you and me, it was damn hard to look away from,” he rumbles, his eyes flipping drilling me now.
Heat pumps under my face.
So he’s noticed—and likes—my ’well-toned’ body.
Eep.
I put a hand on the desk to stop my knees from shaking.
“...so maybe it was me. And what if it was? Am I fired?”
He hesitates for a horrible second.
“Maybe.”
What? I bolt up in my seat.
“I thought we agreed to ninety days! And we weren’t following you. I swear. That’s not fair, Burns.”
“Neither is spying on your boss. Unless you’re telling me you always hang around homeless sites for fun?”
Prick. I doubt he’s serious about the firing threat. He just wants to see me squirm.
“Do you?” I fling back.
“That’s my business, and mine alone,” he clips, sliding back in his chair.
“Why?”
“Because what I do away from work isn’t your concern,” he growls, irritation creeping into his tone.
“Why?” I repeat just to screw with him.
“Were you even listening?”
I smile slowly. “A boss once told me I have to go three whys deep.”
“I’m not a fucking client,” he snaps. “And you should stick to your morgues and haunted houses. You’re no comedian, Miss Poe.”
“And you’re my boss, Mr. Burns,” I say sweetly. “You’re the ultimate client. But you know how it’s none of my business why you were at a tent city inside a public park?”
“Of course I know. That’s what I want you to figure out.”
I try not to laugh. Why does it feel so good getting him worked up?
“It’s technically none of your business why I was at the same public park on a gorgeous day, biking with a friend. It’s not impossible or even implausible for two people who frequent the same coffee shop a few blocks away to wind up at the same public park, is it?”
Ha. Argue with that.
“Have you been there before? Don’t lie to me now. It’s very important I can trust the people I work with,” he says, towering in his seat as he straightens, his hands clasped in front of him.