Bossman (Dirty Office Romance 1)

***

I’d canceled my lunch date with Chase a little later that morning, too hungover to get out of bed. When he tried to push me into rescheduling for Monday, I was noncommittal and eventually stopped responding to his texts.

A line had been crossed, and I didn’t know how to back up other than cut myself off completely. It was my own fault, and Monday morning I was adamant about fixing what I’d screwed up.

***

“Morning.” Chase stood in the doorway of my office with the exact same stance he’d had the other night at my apartment door.

I had psyched myself up all day yesterday—I was a professional, I could put what happened Saturday night behind me and work around Chase like nothing had happened. I glanced at my phone…7:05 on Monday morning, and I’d already failed. Great. Just great, Reese.

Chase grinned like he knew I was thinking unprofessional thoughts.

I folded my hands on my desk. “Good morning, Mr. Parker.”

His brows jumped. “Is that how we’re going to play this?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Parker.”

Chase walked to my desk. “I like the sound of you calling me Mr. Parker. You’ll have to keep it up.”

I swallowed as he moved even closer. My voice showed signs of weakening. “No problem, Mr. Parker.”

“How about, please, Mr. Parker?”

“Please, Mr. Parker, what?”

“Just wanted to hear how good it will sound coming from your lips.” He closed the distance between us, coming around to the other side of my desk and leaning his hip casually against it. He reached out and rubbed my bottom lip with his thumb, speaking directly to my mouth. “Please, Mr. Parker. It will be coming from these lips…mark my words.”

What the hell did I get myself into?

***

It was ironic that I was supposed to be preparing for a focus group, when I was completely unable to focus. The morning blown by my wandering mind, I was glad Monday afternoon was tightly scheduled so there would be no more room for screwing around.

The first of two meetings was at one o’clock in the large conference room on the east side of the building. It was next to Chase’s office, and I couldn’t stop myself from peeking inside as I passed. With the blinds open, his office was a virtual fishbowl. He sat at his desk, leaning back in his leather executive chair with one hand behind his head; the other held his corded desk phone while he talked, looking up at the ceiling.

Momentarily distracted, I stopped paying attention to where I was going and walked straight into Josh. Upon impact, I squeezed the tall coffee in my hand, causing the lid to pop off. I then bobbled the laptop and notepad in my other hand. As I leaned forward in a fruitless attempt to stop everything from falling, I proceeded to pour the entire contents of my coffee all over the front of my blouse, and everything fell to the ground—followed by my empty cup.

“Shit!”

“I’m sorry. I walk too fast,” Josh said.

“No. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He looked at my shirt. There was steam coming off of it. “That must have been pretty hot coffee. Are you burned?”

Chase came out of his office with some paper towels, handed them to me, and bent to pick up my laptop and notepad. Handing the dripping equipment to Josh, he said, “Why don’t you dry off the laptop, and I’ll take care of Reese.”

I blotted at my blouse, but it wasn’t much use—I’d spilled a forty-ounce coffee, and the skin underneath was almost as soaked as the fabric of my sheer shirt.

“You need more than a handful of paper towels. Come with me.” Chase guided me into his office. I was hyper-aware of his hand splayed out at the small of my back, a few of his fingers fanning to that place that isn’t quite ass, but no longer back either. I was pretty sure it was innocent, but my thoughts were anything but.

I was pissed at myself, at how unprofessional I was, and I projected my frustration at Chase. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“My fault?”

“You have me distracted today.”

Instead of feeling bad that he was the cause of my mess, Chase looked pleased. “I can’t wait to see the mess you make when I actually try to distract you.” He reached into a closet and pulled out a white dress shirt. “Here. Put this on.”

“I can’t wear your shirt.”

“Why not?” He flashed a dirty grin. “It’ll be practice for when you’re making me pancakes the morning after.”

I hated that I visualized myself standing in front of that big, stainless steel, double-oven stove I knew he had in his house, wearing one of his dress shirts. I’d gone from acting bothered, to hot and bothered in less than ten seconds.