And he is annoying, I remind myself. Annoying and arrogant and currently in my way. I don’t have time to drown in all that sex appeal—I have a job to try to salvage and an explanation to think up. One that makes it seem totally reasonable that I showed up for my first day as a receptionist looking like I should be working a pole in the middle of some X-rated adult water park.
Just the thought sends a new wave of irritation through me, and for a second I think about sucker punching the great Hunter Browning right in his perfect jaw. He’s bent over clutching his foot right now, so I could actually do it without too much difficulty. But punching him—and dealing with the fallout—would take more time than I’ve currently got, so I settle for yanking the door open and slamming the edge of it into his forehead this time. The pained grunt he lets out almost makes up for all the trouble he’s caused me.
Almost.
Except I barely get three feet inside my brand-new office when the door opens again. I glance back—I can’t help myself—just in time to see Hunter stroll in like he owns the place. Even his new limp and the red streak across his forehead don’t distract from the fact that he looks like he belongs here while I look like I belong anywhere but.
“Seriously?” I hiss as he gets closer, giving him the look I usually reserve for drunk frat boys trying to put a hand up my skirt. “You’re following me now?”
“Wow. Your ego’s a little out of control there, isn’t it, sweetheart?” He’s smirking at me, and—I’m not gonna lie—it’s a good look for him. One that would probably curl my toes if I wasn’t so damn mad. And if my shoes weren’t so damn wet that I can feel the fake leather actually shrinking while I stand here.
I comfort myself with the knowledge that the red line running diagonally across his forehead looks like it hurts. And is slowly turning into a bruise. I should probably be ashamed of myself, and with a normal guy I would be, but he is the one who blocked the door…He should count himself lucky all he got was a limp and a headache considering I can feel my lips turning blue as the air-conditioning kicks in.
“My ego is out of control?” I finally manage to squawk past my outrage.
He waggles his brows. “I’m glad to see you recognize it. Admitting there is a problem is the first step to getting help.”
“Are you fucking with me now? I mean, you have to be fucking with me, right?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Because no guy is actually—”
“If I was fucking with you, I guarantee you wouldn’t have to ask. You’d know.” He shoots me his patented grin, the one that has women from eighteen to eighty dropping their panties after just a glimpse of it.
Despite everything he’s done, I can feel my own panties start to slip. Which pisses me off so much that I snarl, “Can you be more of a cliché?”
“Have a drink with me and you can find out. We’ll call it an apology and, if things go well, you’ll know what it feels like to be fucked with by me.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t drink with men who get me wet.”
Fuck. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. Even before his grin turns wicked and his eyes go dark. And while I’m normally all for trading double entendres with a sexy man, this one sets my teeth on edge. And not in a good way.
“Now that seems like a pretty bad policy all the way around, sweetheart,” he tells me with a wag of his eyebrows. “I mean, what’s the point of drinking with a guy who doesn’t get you wet?”
“Call me sweetheart one more time and I’ll—”
“Mr. Browning, so glad you could make it in this morning, after all. I see you’ve met our new receptionist. I hope you weren’t caught in the rain, too.” My boss, Kerry—who is very definitely in the office—strides past me with her hand extended toward Hunter.
As she does, she gives me a cursory once-over, one that makes it evident just how displeased she is with my appearance—and the fact that I was mouthing off to Hunter, who is obviously a very important client.
“No problem.” The wicked edge leaves his smile as quickly as it came, and when he takes Kerry’s hand, he looks totally professional…except for the wink he shoots my way. “I want to get this process over with as quickly as possible.”
“I know looking for a house can be frustrating,” Kerry soothes as she turns to escort him back to her office. “But I’ve done a lot of research since we met last and I have five houses I’d like you to take a look at. Any one of them should meet your needs nicely.”
“I hope so. I’d like to get settled in the house as soon as I can.”
I don’t hear any more as they’ve reached my boss’s office and she shuts the door once they’re both inside. Terrific. Not only do I show up late and looking like a drowned rat on my first day, but I also insult a client who is probably planning on dropping millions on a house. It will be a miracle if Kerry doesn’t use her four inch stilettos to punt my ass straight out the door at her earliest convenience.
But I’m here now, I decide. I might as well get to work—if I’m lucky, maybe she won’t get around to firing me until this afternoon. The hundred and twenty dollars I’ll make between now and then will go a long way toward paying for this morning’s Uber ride and next week’s groceries.
First though, I need to clean up. A quick glance at the mirror over the receptionist’s desk—over my desk, at least for now—tells me that it’s even worse than I feared. I’ve got raccoon eyes, electric socket hair and my very carefully chosen outfit looks like it’s been through the Hunger Games…twice. And lost both times.
Damn it. I so didn’t hit Hunter hard enough with that fucking door.
Figuring the last thing Kerry wants is a receptionist who looks like she slept under a bridge after a late night bender, I make a mad dash for the bathroom. I don’t have much with me—just a tube of red lipstick and a ponytail holder, but I do the best I can.
I use hand soap to wash my makeup off, determinedly ignoring the too-tight feeling it gives my skin. Then I use my fingers to scrape my war-zone hair back into a ponytail. It’s not a perfect look—or anything close to it with the way my curls are kinking up all over the place—but it’s better than the drowned rat look I was rocking when I came in here.
My shirt is the biggest problem, and while I don’t have an extra blouse in my bag, I did bring a cardigan in case the air-conditioning got to be too much. I start to slip it on, but the sweater is white, too, and I’m still so soaked that I’m afraid it’ll just mold itself on top of the blouse. And while it won’t be see-through, it sure as hell won’t do anything to disguise the fact that my nipples are very definitely standing at attention.
With a muttered curse, I step into one of the two stalls and shrug out of my blouse and my sopping wet bra. Then I pull on the cardigan and button every button. Unfortunately, it’s got a V-neck that stops right at my breastbone so I’m still exposing more skin than I’d like—at least for my workplace. But it’s better than the alternative, so I go with it. If nothing else, I can spend the hours until I get fired hunched over like Quasimodo. Surely no one will notice.