After (After 1)

“I . . . Okay,” he says.

I laugh and caress his cheek. I love catching him off guard. “What is he, when I have you?”

His eyes flutter and he finally smiles. I am relieved that I am learning how to disengage the bomb that is Hardin. “I love you,” he says and presses his lips to mine. “I am sorry for blowing up like that.”

“I accept your apology; now let me show you my office!” I say in a cheery voice.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, too quietly. I choose to ignore it and keep my uplifting attitude.

“So what do you think?” I beam.

He chuckles and listens intently as I show him every detail, every book on the shelf and the empty picture frame on my desk.

“I was thinking I want to put a picture of us here,” I tell him.

We have never taken any pictures together, and the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind until I placed the empty frame there. Hardin doesn’t seem like the type who would smile for a camera, even on a cell phone.

“Oh. I don’t really do pictures,” he says, confirming my thoughts.

But when he sees I’m a little embarrassed by being shut down, he strains to say, “I mean . . . I guess I could take one. Just one, though.”

“Let’s worry about that later.” I smile and he seems relieved.

“Now can we move on to how sexy you look in that dress. It’s been driving me crazy since I got here.” His voice is a full octave deeper and he takes a step toward me. My body heats immediately; his words never cease to unravel me.

“You’re lucky I didn’t open my eyes this morning. If I had . . .” He traces his fingertips along the neckline of my dress. “I wouldn’t have let you leave.”

He brings his other hand to the hem of my dress and caresses my thigh.

“Hardin . . .” I warn. My voice betrays me and comes out as more of a moan.

“What, babe . . . you don’t want me to do this?” He lifts me up and sits me on the edge of my desk.

“It’s . . .” My thoughts are clouded by his lips against my neck. I dig my fingers into his hair and he nips at my skin. “We can’t . . . someone could come in . . . or something.” The words are jumbled and don’t make much sense. He puts his hands on my thighs and opens them farther.

“There is a lock on the door for a reason . . . I really want to take you right here, on this desk. Or maybe against the window.” His mouth travels lower on my chest. The idea of what he is proposing sends electricity through my body. His fingers brush over the lace on my panties and he sucks a breath through his teeth.

“You’re killing me,” he groans as he looks between my legs to see the white lace set I bought yesterday. I can’t believe I am letting this happen, on a desk in my new office on the second day of my internship. The idea thrills me as much as it terrifies me.

“Lock the—” I begin, but we are interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone. I jump straight up and scramble around the desk to grab it. “Hello? Tessa Young speaking!”

“Ms. Young. Tessa,” Kimberly corrects herself. “Mr. Vance is leaving for the day and is on his way to your office,” she says with a hint of amusement in her voice.

I flush and thank her. Clearly she can sense how irresistible Hardin is to me.

Chapter eighty-one

Hardin leaves shortly after he and Mr. Vance finish bickering about a football game. I apologize for having a visitor, but he brushes it off, telling me that Hardin is like family and he is welcome to come by anytime. Visions of Hardin making love to me on the desk take over my imagination and Mr. Vance has to repeat what he said next about payroll three times before I come back to reality.

I go back to reading the manuscript and I am so into it that I don’t realize it’s after five when I look up again. I am an hour late to leave and have a missed call from Hardin. When I get to my car I call him back, but he doesn’t answer. I drive back through moderate traffic, and when I get to my room, I’m surprised to see Steph on her bed. I almost forget she lives here, too, sometimes.

“Long time no see,” I joke and drop my purse and pull off my heels.

“Yeah . . .” she says and sniffles.

“Are you okay? What happened?” I sit on her bed with her.

“I think Tristan and I broke up.” She sobs. It is a strange sight to see Steph crying—she’s usually so strong and sassy.

“Why? What do you mean you think?” I ask and put my hand on her back to comfort her.

“Well, we got in a fight and I broke up with him, but I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I did it—I was just pissed because he was sitting with her and I know how she is.”

“Who?” I ask, even though I somehow already know.

“Molly. You should have seen how she was flirting with him and hanging on his every word.”

“But she knows you two are together; isn’t she your friend?”

“She doesn’t care about that. She’ll do anything to get male attention.” As I watch Steph cry and wipe her eyes, my already strong dislike of Molly grows even more.

“I don’t think Tristan would go for her; I see the way he looks at you. He really cares about you. I think you should call him and talk it out,” I suggest.

“What if he is with her?”

“He’s not,” I assure her. I really don’t see Tristan running off with the pink-haired snake.

“How do you know? Sometimes you think you know people, but you don’t,” she says and looks into my eyes. “H—”