Katie laughs. “I mean, that depends,” she says, rattling the ice in her tea. “Are you asking me as your friend, or are you asking me as The Breakup Artist?”
I think about that for a moment. “Both?”
“Gotcha.” Katie nods. “Well, on one hand, secret and forbidden boss/employee liaisons are sexy as all get out,” she muses, tapping her chin with one polished fingertip. “I mean, just ask Verity Lange.”
“I’d love to,” I deadpan, “if she would return any of my one thousand voicemails.”
“Point taken,” Katie says with a laugh. “On the other hand, it’s probably not the kind of relationship that’s actually going to last.”
“No, I know.” I think of Liam’s buttoned-up demeanor and his cavalier attitude when he was talking about layoffs, the dismissive way he sneered at my (impressive, thank you!) author list. A long-term relationship with someone like that? I’d sooner shack up with Dick Johnson, the chest-beating author of The Real Man’s Guide to Being a Real Man.
Never going to happen.
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” Katie echoes. “But on the third hand, if you’re looking for a dirty, illicit fling…”
“You know,” I say with a grin, snapping the lid back onto my salad container, “the third hand has always been my favorite.”
I get back to the office a little while later to find Liam himself sitting in my desk chair, waiting for me. “Where have you been?” he asks, before hello or how are you doing or anything else remotely civil. It’s like he’s been taking lessons in social graces from Dick Johnson himself.
“I had lunch with an author,” I tell him, dropping my purse on the credenza. “Is that still allowed?”
Liam sighs. “Next time, do it over coffee instead,” he advises seriously. “And have her bring her own.”
I gape at him. Trimming the fat is one thing, but this is getting ridiculous. “Are you serious?”.
“Do I seem like the kind of person who would joke about something like this?”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who jokes about anything, ever,” I fire back.
“I—well.” Liam clears his throat, though I think I’m probably imagining that he looks faintly stung. “Be that as it may, I came to check in with you and see how your call went.”
I stare at him blankly. “What call?”
Liam’s eyes narrow. “Your editorial call with Verity,” he reminds me. “Didn’t you say that was on the agenda for today?”
“Oh!” I feel myself blanch. “Um, yes! I did. Of course! But Verity was on fire this morning—a real writing streak—so we went ahead and moved it to this afternoon.” I make a big show of checking my watch. “In just a few minutes, actually.”
“Hm.” Liam nods, though I can’t tell from his expression if he believes me or not. “Well, I’ll need a full update as soon as you speak to her.”
“Absolutely!” I say, doing my best to wallpaper over my BS with cheery enthusiasm. “Coming right up.”
Once he’s gone I sink into my chair and stare up at the ceiling, running my hands through my heat-wilted up-do. This is ridiculous. What am I going to do, sit here hoping she finally gets in touch with me and making up excuse after excuse until eventually Liam cops on and shows me the door once and for all?
Not going to happen.
Time to get creative.
I pick up the phone and dial the number for the office of Verity’s attorney one more time, a tony uptown firm with a name so long I’m surprised they can fit it on the company letterhead. The attorney is out of the office, like almost everyone else in New York right now, but I do get a hold of her assistant.
Which is even better.
“Hi there,” I say, affecting my best and most convincing Noo Yawk accent. “This is Angela, uh, Soprano calling from the great Brooklyn Chawcolate Company, in Bay Ridge? We understand Ms. Verity Lange is a fan of our products, and we’d like to send her a complimentary gift basket full of our most high-end chocolate to thank her for her loyalty all these years.”
“Please hold,” the assistant says. Two minutes of Muzak later, she’s back on the line with an address on Long Island.
“Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom,” I say once we’ve hung up, delighted with myself. I have to say, it’s amazing how many rich and famous celebrities are total suckers for free crap. I had a friend in high school who once talked her way into the Jonas Brothers’ hotel room by pretending to be a corporate representative from Chick-fil-A who wanted to talk to them about a sponsorship opportunity.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in meetings, basking in the glow of my amateur detective skills. Tomorrow is Friday, I figure. I’ll rent a car and drive out there after work, get the lay of the land. With any luck, I’ll have some actual progress to report to Liam on Monday. He’ll be none the wiser, and I’ll manage to keep my job.
* * *
By the time I get back to my apartment that night, I’m desperate to unwind. The stress of the week and all my, ahem, temptations, have left me in dire need of some relaxation, if you know what I mean. I grab a glass of pinot noir from the kitchen and run a bath, adding some bath salt from a fancy shop in Soho and queuing up my favorite relaxing spa playlist.
Then, right before I slide into the water, I grab my trusty vibrator, too.
The hot water feels amazing, the steam fragrant with lavender and eucalyptus. I feel my muscles unclench as I run the vibe between my breasts and down over my stomach before bringing it in for a landing in the place I need it most. My legs fall open against the sides of the tub, my head tilting back in pleasure as my mind wanders. What will it be today? A wicked weekend with Captain America… Stranded on a deserted island with Sam Heughan…?
But when I close my eyes and sink back into the water, it’s not a hunky Scotsman I see chopping wood, but…
Liam?
I frown. Hardly the stuff of fantasies, but when I try to redirect back to one of my old standbys, my mind stays fixed on my new boss.
Liam, kissing me on the street that night—and then walking me up to my place. Pushing me up against the door… Taking that kiss further… All the way to my bed...
I sigh. Dammit. The heart—and, okay, the body—wants what it wants, so I may as well roll with it. I picture his full mouth and sharp jawline, the dark hair I’d like to sift through my fingers. And I remember the way his body felt against mine, taut and toned. He may have gotten rid of the velvet divan in Harry’s old office but in my head, it’s still very much there. I imagine him bending me over it, his lips migrating down along the ridges of my backbone, his strong hands squeezing my ass.
I lift my hips, getting closer, closer—
And that’s when my phone rings on the edge of the sink.
“Whaaaa?”
I startle, dropping the vibrator into the soapy water as I grab for it. Thank God I splurged on the waterproof model. But that’s about as far as my luck goes, because when I check the caller ID…
It’s Liam.
Good lord, were his ears burning? Or like, other places? I don’t know what parts of you are supposed to tingle when your employee is bringing herself extremely close to orgasm thinking about your infuriatingly muscular pecs.