But now she was standing there, all pissy-like with her hands on her hips, staring lasers at him—and why was she wearing a dress? A short one. Cruz couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her bare legs. Even when they’d been in Florida last year for the NCAA playoffs—and all the major back-room dealings between—she’d still worn some long, flowing dress thing when they’d been on the town. Now she was wearing a short, structured dress with heels—and pearls!
He mentally scrolled back to her saying something about a charity thing before leaving this morning, but he’d only half listened because he’d been focusing on that conference call she’d been briefing him on. What if Maggie had been at a business lunch instead? With some sleazy board member who stared at her legs and the way those pearls nestled right in that sweet spot on her neck instead of paying attention to her miraculous brain?
He drained the rest of his water bottle. No, he wouldn’t start a war.
Though he had to acknowledge he’d launched a pretty big grenade with that kissing comment. And now there was no returning from the annihilation that was hey, I’m okay with making out with you to some lame-ass rendition of “Cupid” while a bunch of strangers and your family look on.
“Y-you’ll what?” Yeah, she was working herself up into quite a state. His Maggie had about ten speeds, usually hovered around three. She was about a six-point-eight right now. Last time she’d been that pissed, they’d lost the big bowl game naming rights to those clowns over at Rebar in a last-minute sneak attack.
It always struck him when she let emotion slip through. Sure, she showed him exasperation on a daily basis. Even appreciation, if he was lucky. But this—whatever was happening—was approaching something akin to nuclear on the Maggie scale. He had to defuse it.
Was the thought of kissing him so upsetting?
“It’s not like it would have to mean anything. But if that’s what you’re looking forward to about getting away on vacation, I won’t let you down.”
“I can’t even believe I’m having to say this out loud.” And he couldn’t either, because he had to strain to hear her, her voice was so low. Yikes.
So much for defusing. “Maggie, I’m sorry, I—”
“I may willingly give up everything to work here and give you way too much of myself, but I’m not…” She tugged at her hair as if it would release the words she sought. Huh, she’d done something different to it today. For the luncheon, he guessed. It looked all soft and wavy and he liked it down, but she flipped over to gather it up in a ponytail.
He could barely appreciate the way the hem of her dress rode up on her thighs when she did that because—wait a minute. “What do you mean you give everything up to—”
She snapped back up, cheeks flaming, hair forgotten and wild about her face. “You know what? We’re not having this conversation. I’ve had this week blocked off for a year. I’m going. You’re not. Because that’s what happens in normal people’s lives. They don’t take their bosses to a family friend’s wedding. And they certainly don’t sleep with them.”
Cruz set his feet back on the belt and dialed up the speed. “Pretty sure I didn’t mention anything about sexual acts on the dance floor, and I’m damn sure I could resist your charms while lying next to you in a king-sized bed.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I’m not sure I could resist smothering you in your sleep, you conceited jackass.” Maggie had her elastic caught between her teeth while she re-gathered her hair, but he could hear her mutter as clear as if she were speaking into a microphone.
“Is it my turn to call HR?”
She flipped him off and went back to her desk.
He tapped the headset and buzzed Carol. “Gonna need you in here in a few minutes, if you’ve got time.” If Maggie knew Carol was coming in, she’d cool off. He glanced over to where she was furiously gathering up papers on her desk.
Maybe not.
“Maggie—”
“Are you going to fire me over this?” She was shoving things into that big orange tote she lugged around, and he could hardly keep up. Fire her? “Call the board now. I can be gone in ten minutes with all those lovely stock options and my severance package. But if I leave, will you even know what you’re doing in ten minutes?”
Low blow. “Maggie. I’m not as helpless as I seem.”
“No, you’re not, because I’m damn good at what I do. So Jack from eighth floor or Susie or Carol or anyone with half a brain can walk in and take over because I’ll be leaving everything in such good condition.”
“Fine,” he grumped, “maybe I don’t need you.”
“Great.” She started taking papers back out of her bag and stacking them on the desk. “It’s been a nice seven years of knowing you, Mr. Griffin. I’ll just prepare my resignation and then I’ll leave. Oh, and I’ll call HR to arrange everything. No need for you to lift a finger.”
She leaned over to press the intercom but picked up the receiver when her assistant answered.
“DeShaun?” Her voice was deceptively calm, and he dialed down the speed to hear better. “Would you print a copy of my resignation letter, please? Dated today. Yes. Yes. A real asshole. Thanks.”
Forget that. Cruz started running again.
Maggie threatened to quit at least once a fiscal year, and they’d always just laughed when DeShaun brought in the letter—then promptly shredded it. Gone out for happy hour after, or, if he’d been a real jerk, out for steak.
He’d bet every last stock option in his portfolio she might not be kidding today—and no amount of steak and a bold red would fix it.
“Maggie. We’ll table this,” he said, adding for now in his head. She probably heard the unspoken words, but she just nodded. Sat down at her desk. Put her headphones back on like the conversation never happened.
When Maggie’s assistant came in with the letter and it went straight into the shredder, he felt unaccountably relieved. That had seemed like a close call. And over what? A party.
Something was going on, and hell if he knew what to do about it.
Maggie discreetly slipped off her heels under her desk and heaved a sigh—though it played out more like a silent scream in her mind. The important thing was they were back on track.
Sort of.
She just had to focus on that.
In the scheme of things, this was nothing. She should be glad he’d backed down. Super happy she’d gotten her way. For the moment. And though some little voice reminded her it would be a lot easier to head back to Virtue Cove with a built-in BFF, Maggie was sure that voice wasn’t submitting Cruz as a worthy candidate.
Especially not after…
Had he really offered to—? Yeah, he had. And just as quickly, had tossed it right back, saying she was the last woman on earth he’d be attracted to.
Her cheeks were still hot, and she cursed the fact the back of her neck was probably lava-flow red, too. Thank you, genetics. But Cruz wouldn’t notice. He was already back to pounding the treadmill, that endless, rhythmic thump thump thump the counterpoint to the melody of her days. Like a lab puppy who knew when he’d been caught chewing the leg of the coffee table, there was no way he was going to be looking anywhere near her side of their shared office suite for the foreseeable future. Which was fine by her; she didn’t want him looking her way.
Except when she’d walked back in after the Ladies’ League luncheon, his eyes had almost popped out of his head. And she’d felt a warm rush of…something when it had taken him a moment too long to recover.
It wasn’t like she never wore dresses or feminine things. Her wardrobe was practically a shrine to all things girly. So what if she tended to favor styles that hit below the knee? Well below the knee. Besides, showing too much cleave at work was tacky.
It was ridiculous that he’d responded to her silk sheath dress with that expression of—of—well, she wasn’t sure what it was. But it looked something a little like horrified fascination.
Thump thump thump thump.
Maggie should see if
the conference room was booked; ignoring him wasn’t going to work. Or maybe she should just pack it in, go for a long walk, and stay up late to get this memo finished. Getting out of this dress and into flexible fibers was suddenly her first priority.
She’d gotten too soft working at SD9. Biggest perk of her job was flexible fibers, but if she’d showed up to the awards luncheon in her normal attire, the Ladies’ League might have voted to revoke that engraved cut crystal doodad she’d left in her car.
Being a C-level in the fashion industry—though Cruz hated it when she referred to SD9 as anything other than an athletics and lifestyle brand—was hard enough. Being a C-level in the fashion industry when you didn’t exactly fit the image…
It had been one thing when the sole focus was men’s apparel. Nobody cared about who made the entrepreneurial machine run. Or what they wore. They only mildly grumbled the “who” in question was a “she.”
And besides, it wasn’t like anybody—male or female—could take their eyes off Cruz Griffin when he was in the room.
But now that they were launching a women’s division? Ugh, it was like she was instantly supposed to be the de facto face (and body!) of the company. She’d had a lifetime of pretty healthy self-esteem disappear in about eight-point-four seconds.
And today? The two minutes Maggie had been on stage behind the mic accepting that stupid award had been torture. She’d been sure every eye in there had catalogued her every flaw faster than you could say “Nordstrom Half-Yearly Sale.”
A soft tone pealed, and, after a press of a button, she waved DeShaun in. “Shred it. Sorry, I should have rung back.”
“No sweat, boss.” He turned on a dime, fed her resignation through the machine, then turned to point to a cell on the spreadsheet she had open on her main display. “These aren’t the latest figures. It’s v.4 you want for the memo, not three. I thought I’d updated that in your docs file last week.”
Ah-ha! That was what had been bothering her all afternoon. “Oh, DeShaun, I could kiss you. Totally my fault. You did. I know better.”
“That snooty-lady lunch today really messed with your mind, didn’t it?”
“You have no idea.” She tipped her headphones off both ears and got down to business gossiping with the best damn administrative assistant this side of the Mason-Dixon. It was close enough to five.
DeShaun Sanders had been the meanest SOB offensive guard for Texas—and one of her best friends since she’d moved to Austin for grad school and met him in their neighborhood Zumba class—before joining the Sierra Delta 9 team as one of their first official employees.
“You look fine, though. And I do mean old-school foine in that dress. What is it, Tahari?”
“Good eye,” she murmured.
“You’re a genius for belting it. Makes your waist look teeny-tiny and your ass slammin’.”
“Yeah, well right now this slammin’ ass of mine would kill for Whataburger. I’m pretty sure between the ten of us at the President’s Table, we all split one meal. I’ve never seen a scoop of chicken salad so small.”
“Uh-oh. It was one of those three-salad luncheons?”
“The absolute worst,” she confirmed. “I almost—”
“Hold on.” DeShaun put a finger to his earpiece and toggled it on. “Sanders. Oh, sure, I’m in the big suite. I know she’d love to see them. Thanks.”
“I’d love to see what?”
“He gonna be ready for this?”
“Be ready for what?” Cruz said, picking up on the he despite his earbuds and the thump thump thump of his feet on the treadmill across the room. But Maggie pretended he didn’t exist.
DeShaun pulled out his phone, checked the display, and buzzed someone through the doors of the suite. “Just leave ’em on the coffee table. Thanks, Kelly.”
Maggie gasped and quashed the urge to execute a 360 in her office chair. The bags on the table were perfection—she’d had the final say on the design. The SD9 logo was prominent and wholly recognizable, but it was set on a series of metallic flourishes. She’d seen the bags last week, so that could only mean—
“The samples are here!”
She and DeShaun dashed over to the seating area and began drawing pieces of clothing out of the bags. Seeing Mr. Ex-Right Guard holding up a fuchsia sports bra and exclaiming over the princess seams was a balm to her otherwise crappy day.
“I know, right?” She laughed and took the garment back. “Like instant lift. I can’t wait until we get the models in these.”
“Why wait? These are yours.”
“Shut up, are you kidding?”
“Cruz and I always get a sample set in our size. Why on earth would you be any different?”
“But I never—” Her heart moseyed its way on up to her throat and stayed a while. Which was just as well, because she had to focus on blinking really, really quickly.
“Sugar.” DeShaun leaned over and plucked a complete outfit from one of the bags—it was trimmed in that cool aqua Maggie favored—and held it out for her. “I’ve got your back.”
Maggie almost squealed when she saw that he’d had her set monogrammed—a perk they’d be offering in their flagship store. She’d been wearing oversized apparel from the men’s lines for years, so she was kind of nervous to see how the cut and fit of the new women’s line translated. She wasn’t sample-model material.
“I’m not sure you—”
“Please have a little faith.” He made a motion for her to turn around and he started in on her zipper.
And that was when she heard the thud.
“Mr. G,” DeShaun called out. “Everything okay over there?”
“I can’t believe you were just going to shimmy— Gah, that hurts,” Cruz shouted as their team doc laid down some antiseptic on the mother-effing burns and scrapes he’d sustained falling off the ’mill. He’d been shouting a lot since it happened; he knew he should calm down. But Maggie had insisted they bring in their on-site doctor to look after him, and he hated being poked and prodded. And yeah, that stinging shit wasn’t his favorite either. The man was doing it on purpose, he was sure.
“You were saying? Something about a shimmy?”
Oh, she was all full of sweetness and light over there on the couch—now fully attired from head to toe in formfitting gear. The clothes weren’t obscene, but what they did to her body was. Instant lift—they weren’t kidding.
He opened his mouth to say something then winced when another sting flamed through his system.
“Stop being a big ol’ baby. I had no intention of dropping trou in here—though you could give a flip. DeShaun was only helping me with my zipper before I went to the ‘executive suite’ to change.”
He scowled at her, but it lost some of its venom when he yelped like a little girl. Dr. Callihan was taking sadistic pleasure in working on his kneecap. Looked like raw meat. He’d have to talk to someone in design about this. He wasn’t the first idiot to bite the dust in their gear, and he wouldn’t be the last to sport some nasty road rash. Maybe they could get in on some new nanotechnology to mitigate the—
“Looks like you’re one lucky SOB, Cruz. No breaks. No sprains.”
Yeah, just a massive hit to his pride.
“Thanks, doc,” he grumbled, now that the biting pain from the antiseptic had subsided into a dull thud. “You seeing anything big down in the clinic?”
Having a doctor on site for members of their team was one of the newest perks they were offering as part of their compensation package. They’d always had a medic on site in the factory, but now any team member could go to Callihan. So far, feedback—and ROI—had been awesome.
“A few late-season colds going round. And allergies. Pollen’s a bitch right now; nothing like Cedar Fever, though.”
“Right on. Thanks, man.”
“You keep him in line, ma’am.” That was directed to Maggie, and damn, if Callihan had been wearing a hat, he was pretty sure the man would’ve tipped it in her direction.
Something that elevated his pulse and had him breathing like he hadn’t run a mile in twenty years.
This was ridiculous. So she looked hot in her new threads? That didn’t mean he should lose his damn mind.
“Do you have any scissors?”
She looked up at him, blinking. “What for?”
He gestured down to the ragged ends of fabric hanging from his legs. Cruz was pissed—these were his favorites and Callihan had just snipped and ripped without even asking. As if he’d had bone protruding from flesh and fabric instead of a few scrapes.
Man wasn’t busy enough if he was so starved for action. Maybe Cruz should see about having him collect some data—
“What do you need scissors for?”
“Gotta do something with these, Maggie.” Cruz absently reached for his phone and started dictating a memo about self-healing fabric with anti-bac properties. Maybe even something that could detect and administer low-dose wound care ointment after high impact.
“Why don’t you just buzz Carol to grab another pair for you?”
He sent the note to his R&D folks with the press of a thumb. “What?”
He scheduled a reminder to talk to Doc Callihan about working on some stats for workplace medical care; maybe they could joint-publish an article in a peer-reviewed journal. Well, with Maggie. She was the word wizard in this operation.
“I said”—the sharp edge of Maggie’s voice had him looking up—“why do you need scissors when you can get another pair of pants?”
“Oh, because I have an idea.”
“Heaven save us from your ideas.” She smiled and pointed to her desk. “Top drawer on the left. And do not lay one grubby finger on the gold-handled ones. Those are for paper only.”
“They’re for decoration only. I’ve never see you use half of this shiny stationery sh—”
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