Falling for the Boss

by Jean Oram

  “What are we doing?” Connor asked as she got out of the car.

  “Taking a boat.”

  “A boat?”

  Oh, thank the heavens for the breeze off the lake. She could stand here for hours.

  Connor’s voice sounded thick, slow. It was as if he was struggling his way through molasses. Was he on drugs? Was he on this retreat to try and get clean in private? Because she was so not the merry maid type and was not going to nurse him back to health. Play-acting nursemaid for a man as sexy as him? Oh, yeah. But cleaning up other people’s vomit in a century-old cottage sounded like her idea of Hell with a capital H. Because, seriously, that stuff was not going to come out of the plain oak floorboards, and she’d rather go back to her crappy old service jobs if that was the way this was going to go down. Her family might need Connor’s money in order to save their cottage, but a girl had to draw the line somewhere. Even for him.

  “You’re staying on an island,” she informed him. “With me.” A secret little jump of glee partied in her belly.

  “An island?” He sat back in the seat as though stunned by the revelation, even though his tone remained flat and lifeless.

  “Yes. It said as much in the ad.”

  “Oh.” He waved, as though she should proceed to drive the car onto a ferry. “Very well then. Carry on. And please tune the radio to Met Opera Radio. Channel seventy-four.”

  Maya stared at him for a moment. “Um, first of all, does this car seem like… Never mind, you have to get out of the car to take the boat.”

  He paused, then slowly reached for the handle, fumbling with it before heaving the door open as though it was made of lead.

  This was not good. Seriously not good. She popped the trunk and hauled his bag to the simple motorboat. The forty-year-old Boston Whaler was great for hauling stuff out to the island, but was definitely not a yacht, nor the kind of boat where someone could hide from the wind or any splashing she might intentionally cause in order to wake up her passenger.

  “This is it. We’ll head across Lake Rosseau to my private island, where you will be staying.” Wow, did that sound good. “It has one building—the cottage, Trixie Hollow.” No need to mention the leaning boathouse along the rocky shore. “It’s rustic. Private. Quiet.” Well, it was when Rubicore Developments wasn’t blasting into the Canadian shield to demolish the point on nearby Baby Horseshoe Island. The company’s representative, Aaron Bloomwood, better have swept the debris off her dock like she’d asked him to when she’d left a few hours ago. Come to think of it, she still had his purchase offer in the boat’s seat pocket. Once she got Connor settled she’d have to pull it out and read it over to see if his company was offering a solution to all her problems. She almost laughed at the thought. Money couldn’t solve everything, but it sure could help when you were pushed against the wall like she was.

  Maya boated across the lake, resisting the urge to make small talk with Connor. She had to rethink everything if he was going to be out of it the whole time.

  She moored the Boston Whaler on Nymph Island and moments later Connor stood on the dock, stretching his back.

  “It’s really quiet here,” he said.

  Maya nodded and chucked his bag in the ancient lift she’d tinkered into working again. It ran from the dock up the hill to the cottage, since there was no road to drive up heavy items. She swung its rusted door shut, latching it before sending the bag up with motorized grunts and groans.

  “We don’t get to take that?” Connor was eyeing the lift as though it was a glass of water in a desert.

  “We take the path.” She pointed to the dirt trail edged with large rocks. Trees overhung it, creating shade at all times of the day. It got a tad steep at the top, where it curved around a massive rock to meet up with the steps that led to the cottage’s veranda, but it wasn’t anything someone their age couldn’t easily manage.

  “I’d prefer the lift.”

  “My hundred-pound mother is the only one who takes it, and even then it’s pretty rough going.” Maya studied Connor’s frame. He’d lost weight since the last time she’d seen him speak—a conference she’d snuck into last fall. He was still hot, and still a broad man, just a little leaner than she preferred. She’d have to see what she could do about that. But even with him slimmer than usual, he wasn’t going up in the lift.

  Maya led him up the path to the cottage, trying not to be obvious about how she was slowing her pace to match his. A man his age—only about seven years older than her—shouldn’t be working this hard. She racked her mind for any recent news stories that mentioned anything about his health. Nothing. They were all about his golden touch, fabulous mergers and net worth. Or sometimes about his still-single status.

  She guided Connor up the steps to the veranda, dreading how run-down the place looked despite the hours of hard work she and her sisters had put into it. Even this morning Hailey and her new movie star boyfriend, Finian Alexander, had been out helping put last minute touches on the place. And yet it still appeared neglected.

  Maya flashed Connor a bright smile, hoping he wouldn’t step on the rotten board third from the top. The last thing she’d need was him to fall through the steps, injure himself and sue them.

  “We have a lovely new chimney thanks to Finian Alexander’s generosity. Do you know his movies? He just left this morning.” No need to tell Connor the man had been part of a frantic working bee, and not here as a guest. “So, anytime you want a fire in the fireplace—you’ll notice it’s gorgeous flagstone from the Parry Sound quarry—we can set you up.”

  Connor’s glazed eyes took in the veranda as it came into view as though he was seeking a place to collapse. “It’s hot.”

  “You’ll find we get a lovely breeze here on the veranda. It’s often seven degrees cooler here than in port.” Maya tried to keep smiling as she stepped off the stairs. There wasn’t enough breeze to whisper the feathers on a hummingbird.

  “Is there air conditioning? My assistant said…” He frowned as though trying to recall a conversation, his mouth curving into a perfect, kissable arc.

  Maya clasped her hands to pull her mind back to business before it filled with fantasies involving Connor laid out in the nude. “Um, no air conditioning. This is pretty rustic, as the ad mentioned. Back to basics, you know?” She swallowed hard. She knew the kinds of places Connor MacKenzie normally stayed. Five star hotels with valet, personal concierge and a penthouse suite. Not…this. Hadn’t his assistant filled him in?

  Maya could so totally replace someone like that in a heartbeat.

  “Quaint.” He tumbled into a wicker chair, reminding her of a long distance runner whose legs had turned to jelly. “I’ll have to remember to thank Stella.”

  “Yes, quaint,” Maya said in a rush. She pointed to a clearing just off the veranda. “This over here used to be the ice shed, and there was an outdoor kitchen, as well. The cottage was built one hundred and ten years ago and has been in the family for—”

  He patted his pockets as though seeking a phone. “Does WiFi come with a rustic retreat?”

  “Yes, of course. We’re not that rustic. The password is Trixie Hollow. Zeros for Os. That’s the name of the cottage. If you don’t see the network, let me know and I’ll switch on the generator—sometimes the battery doesn’t hold its charge.” She was talking too much about things he didn’t care about. She’d turned into one of those annoying, nervous, buzzing women she despised.

  “I have internet.” He frowned when he failed to find his phone.

  “We don’t get cell signal in the cottage. Sorry.” She tugged down her suit jacket. “This way,” she called, opening the wood-framed screen door. “I’ll show you around.”

  “No cell signal?”

  He was going to ask for her to take him back to shore. She could feel it. Why had she thought this was a good idea? Why had she allowed herself to get excited?

  Or maybe someone needed to bring back the real Connor MacKenzie, because this couldn�
�t possibly be him. She didn’t know who this guy was, but he was not the man she’d planned the next two weeks of her life around. Truth be told, it didn’t really matter if he didn’t talk to her for the next fourteen days, as working for him would be better than being the fill-in gopher girl at the local dealership, where there was absolutely no chance of advancement. And missing a few shifts at the Bar ’n’ Grill wouldn’t exactly kill her, either.

  But still, this version of Connor was… Well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. It was more a case of who he wasn’t.

  “You can get a decent signal on the dock, or if you take a nice little hike to the top of the hill out back.”

  “Landline?”

  She shook her head and he let out a disgruntled sound.

  “We can Skype or VoIP, though. Unlimited data. You wanted rustic and no interruptions, and that’s what we offer.” She turned to face him, standing close enough to be perceived as challenging. “That’s what you booked, that’s what you get.”

  The screen door slammed behind Connor as he moved a few inches closer. For a moment she feared being alone with him on an island. So far away from everyone, and with a version of her hero that she hadn’t anticipated. And he was tall. Taller than she’d realized. He filled the wide door frame and created a shadow over her.

  “My room?”

  Maya let out a soft breath of relief.

  “Right. You’ll be staying in Daphne’s—the Daphne Room. Very nice. View of the water.” She hurried across the open plan living room and pushed on the door to her youngest sister’s room. The white-painted, antique bedroom set looked cozy and inviting. “Upstairs is a conference room slash large office. Can I do anything for you as your executive assistant?” She stood in the doorway to his room, uncertain.

  He said nothing as he walked past her and fell onto the bed, splayed out, facedown.

  From her position on the threshold, she leaned closer. Should she be checking for a pulse? Taking off his shoes so they didn’t mark Daphne’s white bedspread?

  “Um, Mr. MacKenzie?”

  She didn’t expect being his personal assistant would be so…personal. She’d expected him to remain formal and for her to be hurrying around after him, scrawling ideas in a notebook.

  “Maybe we should discuss my tasks later. Right now all you need to know is that the bathroom is down the hall. Kitchen, the opposite end. I’ll be around the whole time, so if you need anything let me know.”

  A sound came from the bed and she took a tentative step closer. The sound came again. It was a snore.

  Feeling strangely rejected, Maya left the room and closed the door. She’d go take a shower and change into something more casual, then reread the notes from Stella, his Toronto assistant. Just because he was sleeping didn’t mean she had time to twiddle her thumbs.

  Connor stood outside the bathroom and smiled as he listened to the shower run. Stella had done well, bringing this temporary assistant up to speed so quickly. Thank the stars and lucky paperweights that his new woman—even though she was a babbling, nervous wreck—was the type to stay on top of details. Otherwise there would be no way he could get through the next two and a half days of being disconnected.

  He rested a hand on the doorknob, turning it to go in. This woman knew what he wanted after an afternoon of travel and a nap. She might even be better than Stella, if she caught on to his needs this quickly. And that’s what he needed, if he was going to use the next few days to prove to his doctor that he wasn’t on the brink of a stress-related heart attack, or a life-changing collapse due to exhaustion. A man such as Connor MacKenzie didn’t need two weeks off of work—a few days would suffice.

  He stepped into the misty, warm bathroom. It was exactly the way he liked it. Good old Stella. He needed to give her a raise, even though it was her fault he was stuck here for the weekend. Leave it to her to threaten to quit if he didn’t listen to the doctor and take a few days to see if he could decompress. And as much as he liked to think that his secretary, Em, could fill Stella’s shoes until he found a new assistant, he knew Stella was simply irreplaceable.

  Shaking his head, he tossed his sunglasses on the sink counter and inspected his black eye. Yep, it still looked awful—just like the rest of him. Glancing away from his pale reflection, he peeled off his shirt, doffed his shorts and underwear. He picked up the shorts and inspected them. He hadn’t realized he still owned any that weren’t a form of businesswear. He didn’t even wear shorts on the golf course. Where had these come from?

  Smiling at the towel laid out for him beside the folded casual clothes, he shook his head in wonder. How had Stella managed to find time to go shopping for him? She was amazing. Knowing her, the new clothes probably fit perfectly, even though his waistline had decreased over the past few months.

  He pulled back the curtain on the old-fashioned claw-foot tub, eager to let the water wash over him.

  “Oh.”

  His temp assistant scrambled to cover herself, but then, with a change of mind that surprised him, turned to face him. Full on. Nude. Water cascading over her curves as though she was a nymph, ultra feminine and seductively wet.

  “This shower is obviously in use,” she snapped.

  “So it seems.” She was sexier without her clothes on. Definitely. She had round hips and a narrow, high waist that had been hidden under the suit jacket she’d been wearing earlier. It had hinted at her shape, but this was so much better, he decided, eyeing her belly button. He liked that she worked out and took care of herself, but still had curves and an irresistible softness that would make any man with testosterone in his veins stand up and say hallelujah. And heavens above, those shoulders…especially with water tumbling over them like floods off a mountain.

  She was a mermaid. No, a siren. A siren for sure.

  “Enjoy what you see?” She placed her hands on her hips. Her new position changed the way the water poured, making it head for the gully down the center of her chest.

  Mmm. She was gorgeous. And sassy. He liked sassy.

  He didn’t need to glance down to know his exhausted body wasn’t reacting to her Playboy-worthy physique in a way she rightly deserved. He wasn’t sure if it was betraying him or saving him in this situation, but his pride was leaning toward betrayal. Although the silver lining of not saluting her form with his manhood was that maybe she’d be less likely to beat him out of the room with a back scrubber.

  “What does your name mean?” Shifting his hands to cover himself, he met her eyes. They sparked with daring, and something within him tugged, drawing him closer, even though he hadn’t moved a muscle. “You’re interesting.”

  Most women would have rammed him in the nuts and had him strung up on sexual harassment charges by now. He’d stared for too long at something an honorable man would have looked away from. He should have apologized, left the room. Not gawked, analyzed and then started an asinine conversation about her name.

  The city had wrecked him and destroyed the man he’d once been.

  How had he not noticed?

  “A mermaid? Siren? Greek goddess?” he probed.

  The woman was assessing him as much as he was her. Her dark blue eyes were flecked with yellow. Pretty. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to think much of what she saw. Maybe it was his lack of physical response. That had to be insulting. A relief for sure, but also insulting.

  Her earlier admiration had dried up. There was no cloud of excitement swirling around her, only brewing storms.

  “A nymph,” she replied finally.

  “That’s it. Right.” He turned away.

  “You know...”

  He turned back, head quirked in question.

  “You know...” Her voice shook as she repeated the phrase. Her cheeks had pink splotches. Uh-oh. “If we’re going to be living together we need to set some ground rules. Namely, if the shower is running—which you can hear from outside the bathroom—don’t come in.”

  “And you could learn to lo
ck the door.”

  “It’s broken.” Her voice was hard.

  Everything around here was broken, including himself. Connor didn’t know whether to make himself comfortable or to run away. He pushed his fingers through his hair, then, remembering he’d tossed aside his sunglasses, grabbed them and put them on.

  Maya’s voice rose. “And if you happen to barge into the bathroom while I am showering, leave. Don’t open the curtain and stare at me like a pervert. I’m not an object you purchased with your rental.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Hon, everything was laid out.”

  “Don’t call me hon.”

  “Towel.” He pointed to the fluffy object folded on the small bench. “Shampoo. Toothbrush. Clothes.”

  “I am not your personal butler. This is not the Hilton.”

  “I know. The Hilton doesn’t make it a habit of leaving mouse turds on my pillowcase. They prefer chocolate mints.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” Her chin lifted in a way that he could have sworn made her chest perkier. Was that possible? He wanted to see it again. “In the meantime, eyes up here.” She pointed to her own eyes, and despite everything, he wanted to kiss her. Kiss her for being strong while being exposed.

  Man, he liked her already.

  But most of all, he wanted to kiss her for reminding him that there were still people left in his world who would stand up to him. That right there was worth every penny in his bank account.

  “I should explain that my assistant does these things for me in the city. I like a shower after flying and I prefer the bathroom steamy.” He swept a hand toward the laid-out toiletries.

  Oh. Was that lavender shirt there before? The white lace bra folded on top? Pink razor? Wow. He wasn’t just losing it, he was gone. He placed a thumb and index finger over his eyelids and then pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m a bit exhausted and not myself. I apologize. If it isn’t within your job description to make my life easy, then fine. You can take care of…faxes.”