Tearing my mouth away from hers, I gaze down at her. Those little glasses perched on her nose, her chest flushed and heaving, and those tempting buttons straining over her breasts. She’s beautiful like this.

“What is it?” she asks, slightly breathless. “Why’d you stop?”

“I was just thinking. Maybe I can be of service.”

She squints her eyes. “Meaning?”

I grip her hips and settle her right over the firm ridge in my pants. “If you’d like to ride this, work out all that frustration from work as you lift and lower yourself on my cock, I’d be game.”

“Would you now?” Her tone is light, teasing.

I shrug. “I’d volunteer as tribute.”

She laughs, deep and throaty, and it’s wonderful.

“And have you win our bet? No way.” She shakes her head.

“Okay then, let’s call a spade a spade, because we already broke that first-base rule when I had my fingers in your—delicate flower—at the restaurant.”

“You think my flower is delicate?”

“I do, actually. I think despite that tough-girl act you put on that you’re actually sweet and tender and soft on the inside.”

Her cheeks grow pink and she looks down.

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, right?”

She nods without hesitation.

That’s good. It means she’s beginning to trust me.

Maybe it’s a start.

Chapter Sixteen

Olivia

Our whole building buzzes with activity. Even with my office door closed, I can hear the constant low hum of conversation and quick footsteps and ringing phones. I like that white noise; it helps ease me into a productive groove, and it tells me just how many people are working hard alongside me.

Against all odds, we won a small contract from Parrish Footwear—more of a trial period than anything—and also managed to charm back an old client. But will it be enough? We don’t have time for any false steps.

And not everyone is making their best effort.

I refresh my in-box and frown. Damn it, Harrison still hasn’t sent me that expense summary. I asked him yesterday afternoon, and again when I came in at seven this morning. What the hell has he been doing all this time? That information is at his fingertips; it should have taken him maybe fifteen minutes to round it up.

I consider e-mailing him a third time, then decide against it. The time for nagging has passed. I want him to explain himself in person. Maybe Noah was right about him all along.

I speed-dial the accounting department and ask Harrison’s secretary to send him up. And while I wait for him to arrive, I have a very illuminating chat with her about his recent schedule.

He knocks at my door five minutes later. Harrison is in his twenties, and I’m sure many girls find attractive. But to me, he’s mostly just unremarkable. The kind of guy people pass on the street every day and don’t even remember. Good job. Modest good looks. Average intelligence. None of Noah’s wit or charm.

Wait, why am I thinking about Noah?

As Harrison enters, he closes my office door behind him. Can he tell that he’s about to get chewed out? Or does he just want privacy to make yet another pass at me?

“Hello, Olivia,” he says. “You look beautiful as always.”

I should have known. “Is there some reason why you still haven’t completed the work I asked you for yesterday?” I ask him in my frostiest tone.

He blinks. “I . . . had other things on my docket.”

“Ahead of a top-priority request from your CEO?”

“Top priority? I didn’t know it was that urgent.”

I click on my Sent Mail folder, turn my computer screen around to show Harrison our recent e-mail chain, and point at my last sentence.

“Can you read that aloud to me?”

He leans over to squint at the screen. Reluctantly, he recites, “Please send ASAP. I need this report to finish drafting our new budget before the board progress meeting on Thursday.”

Then his gaze flicks back to me. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to fulfill requests in the order they come in. First-come-first-served is the only fair way to—”

“If you can afford to come in late, take two-hour lunches, and leave early every day, you can afford fifteen minutes to send me a report that I’ve asked for twice.” I spin my screen back into position. “Given the company’s current crisis, most people at your level of management have been pulling overtime lately. I won’t ask you to do that, because I respect my employees’ private lives, but if you wish to continue drawing a full-time salary, you will put in full-time hours. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Ridgefield?”

His eyes wide, he licks his lips nervously. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“And the next time you can’t finish something with the promptness I need, you should tell me so I can find someone who can. Don’t just let my messages sit unanswered in your in-box while I wonder what in the world is going on with your department.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeats. “I will. I’m sorry. You’ll get that report by the end of the day.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Before lunchtime, if you can.” And if you can’t, you’d better have a damn good excuse.

He turns and starts to walk away. But at the last second, with his hand on the doorknob, he pauses to look back.

I quash a flash of irritation. Just go do your job and let me do mine.