“No, I don’t.”
“I caught you reading it in the car on the way to my grandma’s from the airport.”
“Because I wanted to see if Lord Eric had a bush. Spoiler alert, he does.” Rath levels with me, and I swear I just caught a sparkle in his eyes. “Apparently manscaping wasn’t a thing back then.” Holy shit. My boss just mentioned manscaping. Does that mean he manscapes? Gah. Even that is sexy.
“What were they supposed to use to trim? A machete?”
“Seems like that would be the only thing that would cut through the ‘nest of curls,’” Rath says while using air quotes.
“Stahp it.” I laugh out loud. “You know the terms.”
“I know that term because as I read it, it burned into my brain, and I gagged on my own saliva.”
“Ugh.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Of course, that’s all you could focus on. What about the innocent touches, the way the heroine sticks up for herself despite how much lower in class she is, or how even though their love is forbidden, they still go for it anyway?”
He flips the pen in his hand. “Couldn’t get past the nest of curls.”
I throw my hands up in the air and stand from my chair. “You’re impossible.” I pack up my bag, and he does the same. We leave the papers where they are so we can tackle them Monday morning and then together, we head to the elevator.
We both reach for the button at the same time, our hands colliding.
“Oh, sorry.” I nervously laugh. “Looks like we’re both eager to get the hell out of here.”
“Yeah,” he says, standing next to me, one hand in his pants pocket as he rocks on his heels.
Feeling awkward, I say, “Your hand was soft. What kind of lotion do you use?”
He gives me a quick once-over, shakes his head, and then on a sigh, answers, “Aveeno.”
Does his cock smell like it too?
Err . . . I mean . . . no.
His cock scent should not be the first question that comes to my mind after finding out what lotion he uses . . . for his hands.
But then before I can stop it, an image of Rath spread out on his desk, pants hanging by his ankles, cock jutted forward, pouring lotion in his hand crosses over my mind and I light up in flames, my body heat skyrocketing.
Where the hell did that come from?
Linus.
He’s really getting his nipple twisted now.
“Aveeno huh?” I say, trying not to make it seem like I was just envisioning his cock . . . or wondering what it smells like. “Because of Jennifer Aniston?”
Does he rub himself out with his Aveeno lotion to Jennifer Aniston? Oh Jesus, I want to ask so bad. So bad that it actually hurts holding in the question.
So painful, but I keep my mouth shut.
“No, because it works,” he simply answers. The doors open and we step in, our shoulders bumping against each other.
Because I’m awkward, I deliberately go to bump him, or more like I sideswipe him like a linebacker but fail miserably and topple into him so we both crash against the elevator wall.
“What the hell?”
“Oops.” I laugh. “You would think I was on a rocky boat. Just trying to playfully bump into you.”
My hands fall on his chest so I can push myself up and instead of standing tall right away, I lean into him for a few seconds, my palms flat against his pecs. What would he do right now if I gave him a little squeeze? You know, just a little, tiny, wink-wink to his pecs. Would he even notice?
Of course he would notice. He’s as stiff as a board right now. Any “wink-wink” would be absolutely noticeable.
Instead of getting off him, I look up and laugh. “Look at us, making a business sandwich, our clothes being the meat.”
“Were you drinking when I wasn’t paying attention?”
“It would make this moment less painful if I was.” I push off him and stumble back as the elevator starts to move. He catches my hand and steadies me.
“Seriously, are you having a stroke or something?”
I’m having a bout of the sillies, if that’s something.
“Damn these heels,” I say. “They always get wobbly at night. I think they turn into rubber like Cinderella turns into a pumpkin.”
“She doesn’t turn into a pumpkin. Her carriage does.”
“Well,” I huff, “who knew boss man know-it-all was an aficionado on Disney princesses?” I hoist my purse on my shoulder. “Guess I won’t be challenging you at Disney trivia anytime soon.”
He releases me and cautiously steps away. I don’t blame him. I don’t know what’s going to come out of my mouth next and frankly, I’m just as terrified as he looks.
“Working past nine, not good on you. Noted.”
“Might be best.” I agree with a nod.
Chapter Thirteen
RATH
“I missed you.” Warm arms wrap around me, followed by a kiss to the cheek. “God, you look good.” Bram steps away, observing me, his lip print still on my face. I wipe it off quickly and walk into his apartment.
“I’m all for our bromance, but dude, kissing?”
“I’m just so happy,” he says, slapping me in the ass with a thwack. “I haven’t seen my Rathy Poo Poo in a while.”
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
He chuckles and says, “Seriously, man. I’ve missed you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Work has been fucking stressful lately.”
“Taking on more things?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just, training and all of that.” Not that I’ve really trained Charlee at all . . . more like she’s trained me.
I’m using the colored-coded pens for each corresponding day, doing the dishes for the both of us, watering the plants like she’s scheduled me to do. Christ, I even whistle theme songs as per the added suggestion she made, and I’m pretty sure Sir Dragomir enjoys “Wheels on the Bus” the most. His leaves seem to be shining more ever since I started whistling that specific tune.
“Aah yes, the new assistant. Still liking her?”
“Yeah.” We both walk to the kitchen and sit at the bar. “She’s doing a more than adequate job.”
“That’s good to hear, given your latest failures when it comes to assistants. Maybe she can schedule more meetings where I’m involved. I haven’t even talked to you about the wedding.” He cringes. “Are you really okay with it being on your birthday?”
“Yes. Dude, I don’t care. All I care about is you two getting married and having the best day ever.” I point at him. “And don’t get me a cake.”
“Too late, it’s already been ordered and I got it with a picture of your penis on the top.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I laugh. “Where would you even get a picture of my penis?”
“Sophomore year, college . . .”
“Oh fuck.” I laugh some more, thinking about the night I got so wasted, I ran around our frat house giving every guy not passed out a view of my “helicopter.” Yes, before I was Rath Westin, CEO of a billion-dollar company, I was Rath Westin, flings his willy around when drunk. “I thought I told you to get rid of those.”