Never Hide Again

Chapter 12

“Mr. Franz has invited me to visit his vacation home in L. A.,” Brexton says, on this dreary morning as I come into his office.

Rain clouds and a dark sky are at his back today. The only pop of vibrant color is his emerald green dress shirt—tailored to perfection, of course.

A few weeks have passed, and I’m still thinking about him threatening Mr. Loper, but I try not to focus on it all the time. It’s proven to be difficult, however. Also, our conversation—that conversation. It makes me question how badly someone like Grant Brexton could end up wanting me, and what a life like that would entail.

All stupid things to dwell on, and now I’m more aware of his body than ever before.

My eyes want to trail his flat stomach, but I fight that and keep a steady tone, and my head down. “Then it's safe to say our dinner was successful after all?” The door latches behind me, and something about being alone with him makes me stand taller, even though relief is flooding through my limbs.

“Yes. I told you, we did all right.” He gestures for me to sit in one of his consultation seats. My pulse quickens when instead of behind his desk, he seats himself next to me. “I’ll be heading there in three days.”

“How long will you be staying?”

“Just one day. I'll leave in the morning and be back the next afternoon.” He leans back. “By the end of it all, we should have Kostspielig beer as our newest product.”

A smile lifts the corner of my mouth while I flip open my planner, ready to take notes.

“While I'm gone, look into Klein Manufactures. They're in Germany and a maker of wine and cheese. None of their reps speak English, but Alan wants to try and bring them into our store on 50th Street. Find where their main office is located. Send them a gift. A basket of fruit or something. Try to get on their good side, see if they’re interested in branching out overseas.”

My pen races across the page, trying to keep up with the orders. I run my teeth over my lower lip in concentration while writing. When I finally catch up, I prepare for the next wave, but there's nothing—only silence. Glancing up, my heart skips a beat.

He's watching me, his head resting against the highchair back. One brow is slightly raised, the usual wash of heat in his eyes abating as they round and soften. His wide chest lifts with a heavy breath right before he exhales. “I wish you wouldn't do that.”

“Do what?” I barely hear myself. Talking the way I should is hard when he looks at me like this—a little soft yet annoyed.

“Bite down on your lip while I dictate.” More frustration cracks in his now stormy gaze as he shakes his head. “It drives me crazy.”

“Sorry,” I croak out. Desperately, I attempt to divert my eyes from his straining chest, but I fail—and he notices.

“No, you’re not,” he rumbles. “If you were, you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

A lump gets lodged in my throat, and I try to swallow back. All that resides is dryness, and meekly, I nod. “I could use some water.”

“I believe it.” He pulls to his feet, and holds a hand out, signaling for me to do the same.

After smoothing my skirt, I stand and follow behind him to the mini bar area.

Any other boss would have liquor and shot glasses. Brexton keeps bottled waters, ginger ales, and sparkling beverages here along this long wall.

He dips down, digging in the mini fridge for a second. Upon standing again, there’s a strawberry-flavored water in his hand. Deftly, he twists the cap off, discards it, then hands me the drink.

I accept with a timid grasp, taking a tentative sip that has me watching him.

He stares. Silently.

The longer silence circulates around us, and he observes me, the more my nerves spark to life. They’re thick, and full of barely restrained desire, causing the base of my spine to tingle. I’m trying not to shift back and forth, trying to retain some sort of control over my impulses to tell him I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him, but I sense them land sliding. Several moments later and my grip is causing the plastic to dent under my touch, and my hips are readjusting.

One more sip of water and my voice finds itself again—even if only marginally. “What is it?”

He leans back, resting his ass against the lip of the bar, and spreads out his arms. “Have you thought more about our conversation from the brewery the other night?”

“I have.” The briefness of my reply could be an understatement, since it’s basically all I’ve thought about.

“And what are you leaning toward? Is the word yes still on the tip of your tongue?” He taps a long finger on the edge of the bar.

Why does he make it sound so easy? Tip of the tongue answers could easily be the scalding water to the iceberg of my protection and thus upheaval everything.

There will be no yes—no matter how badly I want to say it.

I jerk my line of vision away, refusing to think about the word any longer under his stare. “It’s not that simple.”

“What about my proposition is complicated?”

“It’s not your proposition,” I counter. “Just me.” My voice falls to a murmur.

“Then please enlighten me. Tell me what’s so complex about Olivia Tucker. Help me understand what’s keeping you from uttering a simple yes when I know that’s what you want.”

What I want.Jesus. He knows how to puncture holes in my walls of defense. He understands how badly I desire something more, and it chips my resistance away.

Why can’t I just have a taste?

A moment?

A second?

We don’t have to partake in this huge exchange, one that will blur the lines like the other day in his printing room. A mere flash could suffice.

A brief blimp to indulge in someone who wants me as much as I want him—looks at me in the same heated way. Why can’t I have that, and why do I always feel the need to deny myself and kill my own rooted desires?

It’s not fair.

The first shard of refusal falls away, cracking at my feet.