Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)

“That’s a choice, though, isn’t it?”

“Not if I don’t want to look like a hag in a pretty dress every day.”

I don’t know if I believe that. I think it’s more likely that women have been conditioned to believe they need makeup to look good by some of the magazines this company owns and endorses. I bet she’s equally gorgeous without the makeup, but I don’t say that because I’m unsure how the compliment will be taken.

Under that brown pencil her eyebrow is significantly lighter. I tug on the end of her ponytail. “Is this your natural hair color?” I’d like to say I already know, since she flashed me that first memorable day, but there was nothing but smooth skin to compare it to, so I’m at a loss.

“It’s lighter than this.” She motions to her head.

“How much lighter?”

“Why does it matter?”

I shrug. “It didn’t until you started getting defensive about it.”

“I’m not defensive.”

“Yes, you are.”

Wren huffs out a breath. “I’m naturally fair. My hair is dark blond. I dye it so people will take me seriously and not stereotype me as some kind of brainless ditz.”

“Do you honestly believe people make those kinds of ridiculous assumptions?”

“In my personal experience, yes.”

“That’s terrible.”

Wren shrugs. “That’s life.”

“Dark hair or light hair, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re gorgeous, or that you’re incredibly proficient at your job.” I’m still fingering the end of her ponytail. Being this close to her, I get a hit of floral shampoo, or maybe it’s lotion. Whatever it is, I like it.

“Thank you.” She adjusts my collar for the second time, fingertips grazing my throat.

Normally this kind of attention would bother me, but for some reason I don’t mind when Wren does it. Possibly because I enjoy it when she’s all up in my personal space. It also allows me to stare at her without her noticing, since she’s so absorbed in making sure nothing is out of place.

Now that I know she dyes her hair, I detect the hint of roots at her hairline. This close, I can also make out the blond in her mascara-coated eyelashes. She has a tiny beauty mark under her right eye and another on her left cheek.

Her gray gaze shifts and meets mine, there are flecks of blue and green near the pupil that I haven’t noticed until now. She’s utterly captivating.

I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t, and the attraction we’ve been masking with the constant bickering flares. Her tongue sweeps out to wet her bottom lip. If I kiss her, that red lipstick will disappear and stop being such a distraction.

Holy shit. I’ve been so wrapped up in hating my family and this job that I failed to recognize I have a serious hard-on over my handler. Quite literally.

Even though I know it’s a very bad idea, I tilt my head down, an infinitesimal shift that speaks louder than words ever could. Those lips of hers part, and she tips her chin up, eyes still locked on mine. We’ve been dancing around each other since she brought me up to the penthouse the night of the funeral. Half the time, my irritation and her snark seem a lot like flirting.

I’m not her boss, not really. She’s not my employee. There aren’t any restrictions here. Complications, yes. She’s contracted to deal with me for several more months. But this attraction is becoming difficult to ignore, especially when she’s this close to me and it seems mutual.

I’m almost past the internal argument when a knock on the door startles us. Wren sucks in an unsteady breath and takes two quick steps away from me. I mutter a curse and wrench the door open.

Standing in the hall, nervously wringing her hands, is Marjorie.

“I don’t need a coffee.” Dammit. I’m snappy, so I tack on, “But thanks for checking.”

She blinks a bunch of times, like a strobe light. “Um, okay. I’m actually looking for Wren. She’s not in her office. Have you seen her?”

“I’m right here.” Wren steps up beside me, looking a hell of a lot more composed than I feel. “What’s going on?”

Marjorie blows out a relieved breath. “We have an ADF emergency.”

Wren rolls her eyes. “Of course we do, and right before a meeting. How shocking.”

“What’s an ADF?” I ask.

Marjorie makes a cringy face.

“Armstrong Douche Fuckery emergency,” Wren explains. She turns back to Marjorie. “Is he having a meltdown?”

Marjorie nods vigorously. “It was a code yellow before I came to find you, but it’s been a few minutes.”

“That means it’s probably escalated to a code red by now. Where is he?”

“He was in his office.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” Wren slips out of my office and strides quickly down the hall in the direction of Armstrong’s, Marjorie rushing to keep up. I follow along because I’m interested to see what exactly a code red ADF emergency looks like and how she plans to handle it, since it’s her job and all. “Do you know what exactly it’s pertaining to?” Wren asks Marjorie.