“Oh, and, Poppy…” he says. I like the way he says my name. A lot.
Damn it, there you go again.
I turn back to him. “Yes?” The large office feels somehow smaller now that he’s standing in it, and I force my eyes to stay on his face. That perfect, chiseled face that could rival even the most vivid description of Dorian Gray.
“If you wear anything shorter than that skirt during your time with me, we are going to have one hell of a problem.”
My jaw drops. What does that mean? I recover as quickly as I can and manage a weak, “Okay,” before hurrying out of the office. I can’t even begin to figure out what he meant by that, and he had this unreadable look on his face…
Was I being chastised for my clothing? I glance down at myself as I walk down the stairs. No. This suit skirt is totally work appropriate.
Maybe he’s a prude? I think as I nod to the other guy who had been in the gallery. Now that I’m really looking at him, I recognize his face. He’s been here in the past when I’ve visited. I guess he’s Roberto, Nathaniel’s curator.
As I step outside into the cool autumn air, my mind still races with that damn comment. Nah. He didn’t seem like a prude, either.
It could be the other end of the spectrum. Maybe he was being sleazy.
I walk toward the nearest subway station, mulling that over, and immediately discard it. He’s egotistical and arrogant, for sure, but I didn’t get the sleazy vibe from him. I know what that feels like, and this wasn’t that.
Another thought hits me, and it has me grinning. Maybe tall, dark, and grumpy was indicating that he finds my legs distracting. Maybe seeing my legs every day at work would leave him almost as hot and bothered as I was, just from being around him.
I laugh to myself. I like that idea. And either way, every business suit I own has the same length skirt, so he’ll just have to get over it.
The idea of him lusting over me, even a little bit, increases my good mood even more. I know that, once that original awkwardness had passed, I did a good job in my initial meeting with him. I know that he was impressed by the fact that I’d volunteered for so long, and he actually seemed interested in what I’d said when I was talking about some of the projects I’d undertaken. Smart, cultured, and sexy as hell? Sign me up.
Boss. He is my boss. And my dad’s boss. I grimace at that. Working with my dad is going to be… a little weird. We’re not exactly close, and I know him helping me get this internship is at least partially out of guilt. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been daddy’s little girl and this will be the most time I’ve spent with him in years. It’s not that Dad’s a bad person—and a part of me will always love him regardless—it’s just… thinking about that situation has me reflecting a bit more on my own reactions and behavior, and how easy it is for powerful men to take advantage of women who work for them…
I should know better right now. I shouldn’t be contemplating any sexual thoughts of my boss because, despite my dad’s history, my mom raised me to respect myself, and others.
So, I won’t think about any of it anymore—especially not what it would be like to ride Nathaniel, grinding into him, cowgirl-style.
Because he’s my boss.
I need to keep reminding myself of that, especially if he’s going to keep making comments like that. For all I know, he either flirts with every woman he comes across, or he really did just disapprove of my skirt length. He never has to know that I’m already picturing him naked and that it’s entirely possible that he’ll be starring in my sexual fantasies for the next few weeks, at least. No one has to ever know about that but me.
Oh, shoot. Listen to yourself, Poppy. You can’t even banish him from your mind for one second.
It’s a hopeless cause, yet it’s one I apparently don’t seem to mind. I guess I’ll just have to grin and bear the hot, handsome bossman.
Chapter Five
Poppy
My first week at Stone Gallery passes in a blur. True to Nathaniel’s word, he’s had me doing more than a little administrative work. I’ve answered phones, responded to customer emails, dealt with shipments and mail, and gone on lunch and coffee runs for Nathaniel and Roberto.
I almost feel like I’m being tested, like Nathaniel’s waiting to see if I’ll start complaining or whining that this kind of stuff is beneath someone with my education and experience. But I know better, and I can see, by watching him, that he doesn’t consider any task at the gallery beneath his pay grade, either. I’ve watched him help the maintenance guys move a heavy display case, answer the phones on several occasions, and when a pigeon flew in the back door on my second day, Nathaniel ran around with the rest of us, trying to shoo it back out before it crapped on someone’s priceless creation.
One thing I’ve learned—aside from the fact that he’s gorgeous and absolutely knows his business—is that he has a dry sense of humor. That’s like my own personal version of Kryptonite. Added to the rest of the package, it’s like some kind of cruel joke that one man ticks every single one of my “oh my God, I want him” checkboxes, and he’s my boss.
The universe has a messed up sense of humor.
I’m at the reception desk, typing up an invoice for a client who purchased two pieces from the gallery, when Nathaniel walks around the desk and stands behind me. I hear him shuffling through some paperwork on the credenza.
“Are you looking for something?”
“There was a printer’s proof of the catalog for the upcoming exhibit that came in yesterday.”
“I put it on your desk, along with the rest of the items that needed your attention from that giant, towering stack of mess. The catalog is on top.”