GRACE
Iswear the sexual tension has been thick as humidity in a damn jungle the past two days. Ever since I finally talked about the elephant in the room on Wednesday, you could cut through the tension. And I know he is doing things on purpose. The way he leaned into me Wednesday to take that glass out of my hand. Yesterday he would just stare at me while he was on the phone and it made me so uncomfortable because, let’s face it, that blue-eyed lust-filled stare was making my panties wet, I had to go downstairs and work in the conference room with the interns.
I am so grateful he has a lunch meeting today because I need a break from him.
“Be ready in ten minutes.”
I snap my head to him. “Excuse me?”
“Ten minutes. Make sure you bring any notes on the Phillips case.”
“Excuse me, what? I thought you had a lunch meeting.”
“I do.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
He swivels his chair and gets up, walking toward me. “I’m meeting with Detective Herst. He agreed to speak to me more about what they found at the crime scene. You have been looking for abnormalities in the case, so I need you there to see if you recognize anything.”
“Umm… is that legal? For him to talk to you?”
He leans against the table. “You’re the journalist. I think you know how these things work.”
“You’ll be in public.”
“My brother will be there too. Just lunch with family and coworkers.”
I raise a brow at him. “So you are using me to make this meeting look like it’s something else.”
He shakes his head. “No, you are there to listen. Nothing wrong with talking to people. Asking more questions. Not going to use his words in court. But he might give me more than the prosecution is giving me.”
I purse my lips. It makes sense. It sounds like something I would do for an article. “Fine.”
We don’t talk on the drive to a restaurant on the east side of town. My mind turning on why he took me and not one of the paralegals or interns. But maybe it’s because he knows I’m an investigative journalist. Or was. I don’t know how much Owen told him about me. Except that I begged him for a job. Which is true.
When we get to the restaurant, I step out of his car and find him walking over to me instead of toward the restaurant.
“I know you’re a journalist. It’s why I asked you to come with me. I know you can pick things out better than anyone. Well, maybe not as good as me.”
I roll my eyes as he smirks. “I’m going to disagree with you on that one.”
“You know what we are doing here can’t be talked about. Right?”
I nod.
“You can’t tell your brother.”
A weird feeling hits my stomach. Like a forewarning. Maybe Carson isn’t what he seems. But I don’t let myself think about it. “Got it.”
A breeze hits us, blowing my hair across my face and his hand starts to reach up to me but he pulls it back. I brush my hair out of my face as Carson turns and heads to the restaurant. I don’t know what that was. But that foreboding feeling turned to butterflies when I thought he was going to touch me. The damn sexual tension that’s been in the office is back in the air.
“Can I order a glass of wine?” I ask him as we sit at a table next to the windows looking out to the mountains.
“Are you really asking for permission?”
“You are my boss.”
His eyes darken at my words, the sexual tension thick. “Do you like that? That I’m your boss?”