The Boss hole (An Enemies To Lovers Romance)

The latter thought should’ve pissed me off, but I didn’t entirely hate the little game of cat and mouse he seemed intent on playing. I just hoped he didn’t mind finding out that if I was the mouse, I was the type of mouse who bit back.

We swung through a coffee shop, and I saw that, sure enough, I had a detailed email with his exact coffee order. Somehow, the man needed a paragraph to explain that he didn’t want anything in his coffee. It was mostly a bunch of assurances that he’d make me regret it if I didn’t personally watch to make sure they didn’t tamper with his coffee. I did appreciate the brief post note demanding that I get something for myself with the card Harvey had supplied. He’d even had me get something for Harvey, but he managed to taint any potential kindness in the act by assuring me I’d need the caffeine to survive the day ahead of me.

I thanked Harvey once he dropped me off at the offices and made my way to Mr. White’s office with his coffee. Nobody else was in yet, and his light was the only one on when I entered the room.

I knocked on his door and waited.

He pulled it open, looking sharp, as usual. I thought I could smell his shampoo or soap drifting from his freshly washed body and did my best not to dwell on the image of him in the shower that popped into my head.

“You’re late.”

“It’s not even six in the morning.”

He looked at the coffee in my hand, took it, then had the nerve to pop the top and sniff it. “There’s no sugar in this, right?”

I glared. “I watched the girl from the moment she poured the cup, just like you asked. She poured coffee, put the lid on, and handed it to me. I then proceeded to guard this cup with my life from any rogue grains of sugar that could’ve found their way into your cup.”

Mr. White took a sip, then nodded. “Good. I want you to taste this,” he said, offering the cup to me.

“What? Why?”

“Because this is how my coffee should taste every time. I want you to be able to know if they burned the beans or undercooked them.”

I looked at the cup. “This isn’t very sanitary.”

Mr. White’s eyes blazed, and I couldn’t decide if it was anger flaring up in them or something more dangerous.

I cleared my throat, then drank after him. It brought me back to my middle school years in fancy prep schools. I’d had my first brush with hormones when a boy at my table asked me if I wanted the last of his soda. I’d been scandalized and excited at the idea of drinking after him, and I thought I’d left that innocence behind. Apparently, Mr. White brought me back to the basics, because when I put my mouth to the cup, every atom in my body lit up.

I made the mistake of raising my eyes to meet his while I was drinking, and I decided it wasn’t anger there. He looked hungry, and not for a croissant. He wants a bite of your biscuit. Anastasia’s words popped into my head, and I sputtered, spitting the foul-tasting black coffee out.

I wiped my mouth, wincing at the taste and trying not to laugh at the memory of what Anastasia had said. Then all the humor drained from me when I saw Mr. White’s perfectly white shirt was now an unfortunate white and brown polka dot pattern.

“It tastes bad,” I whispered. I tried not to make eye contact, but I could feel him glaring straight through my soul.

Mr. White unbuttoned his shirt and his tie. He had on a thin, sleeveless shirt beneath. He pulled off the dress shirt and handed both the tie and dress shirt to me. “Go wait outside. I’ll have Harvey pick you up and I want you to get these dry cleaned.”

I couldn’t help ogling his body. I thought I understood he was in good shape from the view I’d had through his dress shirts. But I didn’t expect the eyegasm of smooth, tanned skin, tattoos, and just the right amount of lean, defined muscles. My eyes lingered on his chest, where I could see the darkened shape of his hard nipples pressing into the fabric just above the outline of abs.

“Or,” he said, voice a low rasp. “You could keep staring at my chest until the stain sets into my shirt and tie.”

I jumped. “S-sorry.” I started for the door.

“Miss Adams.”

I turned, clutching his damp shirt that smelled disturbingly good, even with heavy overtones of spit out coffee now tainting the aroma. “Yes?”

“It tastes better if you swallow it.”

Don’t say it, Jules. Don’t you dare say it. “Okay,” I managed.