I point to the mountaintop and a wide, flat ledge of rocks below that should make a good place to sit.
“We’ll have a great view from there if we hurry.” I grab the picnic basket out of the back seat and lead the way.
A few minutes in, I turn back to find Sabrina struggling along behind me.
“Why don’t you go ahead of me? I’ll catch up,” I tell her.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“I insist. Ladies first.” I wave my arm in front of me, hoping she’ll pass.
The ground becomes rockier and less even when we’re closer to the shaded area I plan to stop at. Sabrina almost loses her footing, rocks skidding out from under her.
I slow down, ready to catch her if she falls. She uses her hands to catch herself and rebalance several times, yet continues the climb.
She’s quick on her feet.
I’m not sure I could do that so gracefully in flip-flops.
Then she missteps with a loud squeal.
I slide the picnic basket up my wrist and stretch my arms to catch her. It doesn’t matter though, because she’s falling, overcompensating her balance, and slams into my chest.
Shit.
I brace myself to keep from keeling over with her. My free hand instinctively closes around her, turns her gently to face me, and I hand her the picnic basket.
“Hold this.”
“Why?” she asks.
I sweep her off her feet. Literally.
Before I know what’s happening, I’m cradling her head in one elbow while her feet dangle over my other. Our eyes lock with a hot polarity that makes her gasp.
Fuck.
For a second, I wish this grip on her was about more than preventing a broken neck. She trembles at my touch, supple curves and rippling hair, my own raging desire personified in one stubborn, gorgeous, and right now far too vulnerable young woman.
Sabrina.
You’re fucking killing me.
I have to turn my head, breaking our stare, and take a ragged breath. Who knew something that feels this good could be torture?
The proximity reminds me how beautiful she is, and the way she stares up at my lips with hers parted, stunned, and wanting does nothing to dispel the demon thoughts in my brain.
“Are you crazy?” she demands. “You’re...you’re actually carrying me. Did you see a scorpion?”
I smile, wishing like hell I had a less lethal reason for hoisting her up.
I’m fully aware this is inappropriate.
Making sure she doesn’t break her neck isn’t.
“Worse,” I tell her. “A broken neck and wrongful death suit are both things I don’t need. Send me an army of scorpions over that.”
“Ha-ha,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
She tries to glare at me, but it’s diminished by the way her lips turn up in a smile.
“I thought it was funny,” I growl. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Nowhere with creepy crawlies involved.” She shudders, tucking herself into my chest. “I don’t need that kind of wildlife up here.”
When we reach the ledge several paces later, I set her on her feet.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
She hugs her arms in front of her chest, rolling her eyes to the side. “Um, everything? Getting me out of that conference early, driving us here, making sure I didn’t fall on my butt. You’re a nice guy when you want to be.”
I don’t dare acknowledge that last part, so I spread out the picnic basket, the blanket, and open the wine. I pass her a glass I’ve unpacked.
“You make it sound like I rescued you from a burning building. You hated the Adzilla conference that much?” Something in my gut screams I should say more, but this seems like a benign place to start.
She bites her lip.
“I liked the presentations. Very informative. I’m still pretty new to this industry.” She gives a half-smile, but the expression looks pained. “I can’t say I really like the forced socializing. It felt like high school on steroids.”
Nice punch to the gut, but how can I blame her?
After that first night and my outburst with Jake Willis, anyone would wonder.
“I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “If anything I did spoiled your time here, rest assured it won’t repeat itself. I’m a man who learns from his mistakes.”
And I am, even if the confrontation with Willis felt more like a near-crime of passion than any boo-boo.
Sabrina sits down, crossing her legs in front of her, sipping her wine. “Don’t worry. I’m not complaining. This is the perfect end to a pretty decent time here.”
“Tell me something good,” I say, clinking my glass softly against hers. “There’s more to your life than proving you can handle whatever I throw at you, hiding from black cats, and never venturing beyond the Wisconsin hinterlands.”
Her smile is almost sad, and those russet-brown eyes darken a shade.
“I’m an open book, but there isn’t much to tell. My friends call me Brina.” She bites her lip. “You—you could call me Brina.”
“Brina.” I roll the name off my tongue, tasting how soft it feels mingled with the wine. “That’s pretty, I’ll admit. My friends and enemies alike call me Mag, but you already knew it. You can, too, if you’d like, since we already went there over email.”
“Oh my God.” She laughs. “You have friends? Besides Ruby and Armstrong, I mean? I didn’t really think you did anything but work.”
Damn.
Busted.
Of course, I’m not going to let her know how artificial my social life really is.
“I don’t do the best job keeping in touch with the folks who count. Not really, but they do exist. A couple guys from my old unit, now settled back in Cleveland with wives and kids,” I say, finishing a glass of wine and filling another for her. “So, Brina, what else? Work, Wisconsin, and...?”
“I still design whenever I get a chance. I’ve always loved art, and it’s how I met my bestie in school, Paige. Right now, though, I just like making money. Keeping a roof over my head gets expensive in the city. So is the leaky roof over my paren—” She stops mid-sentence and goes quiet.
I lean in, waiting for more, hating how she turns away.
One more reason I’m glad I hired her after that day in the park.
Besides being the best executive assistant I’ve ever had, she really needs this job.
“A leaky roof sounds dangerous with winter almost here,” I mumble, pulling out my phone and opening a page I’ve bookmarked with a certain whimsical romance author.
“What are you doing?” she asks, draining her glass, struggling to look over my shoulder. “Mag?”
“Nothing,” I say, trying not to smile.
“You’re lying,” she squeaks, reaching for my phone. “Let me see, c’mon!”
I jerk it away from her, type five thousand units into the quantity field, and before she can stop me, I hit buy.
“I want to see!” she hollers, twisting around like a playful kitten.
I’m laughing as her hand waves in front of my face. I lean back, moving the phone away from her.
The confirmation page comes up just as her hand closes around my phone, and she bends it in a way my hand can’t twist. The screen lights up her face in the dusk, showing me how delicate her lips look when they fall open, forming a perfect red O.