Touch Me Boss: A Single Dad Office Romance

by Aria Ford

  Dessert couldn’t have disappeared quicker, and Ofélia particularly leapt out of her chair in her hurry to follow the party back to the den, champagne glasses in hand.

  Atlas barely touched his coupe of white wine, citing the drive home as excuse. Really he looked like he hated the stuff – then again who was Ofélia to know what Atlas Neville hated or not? She’d known him for, qué, two days and going on a third.

  He had let her stay with him for an extra day to walk her through his, their game plan. Ofélia slept in the guest, more comfortable than her actual bed at home she hadn’t wanted to trade the plush queen for her single, old and worn mattress in Aguascalientes.

  A knock at the door distracted Agata from her recent line of questioning; Ofélia had given her half the attention she would normally.

  Do you mean if you were Atlas’ fiancée?

  While their hostess went to answer, Ofélia sunk back into the smooth leather cushions in relief. If she had to grin stupidly through one more answer about Atlas and their fake relationship, she’d crack.

  Catching Atlas’ gaze, she smiled weakly, hopefully to let him know she was reaching the tether of her patience. He nodded; mouth a thin, grave line but eyes alit with…humor?

  He thought this funny? En serio – really?

  Agata’s return snapped Ofélia’s staring and the irritation at Atlas’ odd sense of humor completely dissipated to shock. Standing up, like Atlas, señor Montero and Gustavo, she moved closer to confirm their latest party’s identity.

  “Aarón?”

  When Atlas first met the Monteros and set his eyes on the purchase of their dilapidated resort and spa, he had prepared well advance, studying the players and the game, working night after night for two long months until he’d coaxed the San Diego trip from Mr. Montero, his only child, Agata and Gustavo, Mr. Montero’s accountant and financial confidante first before ever falling in love with and marrying Agata.

  So who was Aarón?

  And why the heck was he hugging his fiancée?

  “Ofélia! I can’t believe it’s you.” This Aarón was saying. Atlas hated his voice already, and he hated that he was swinging his date off her feet, literally.

  Yeah. Not on my watch.

  “Atlas,” Ofélia gasped his name at his yanking her back, arm squeezing around her waist, holding her to his side while she bared that caramel-hued throat of hers, parted her alluring lips on an unvoiced question and pierced his soul with dark, bottomless eyes.

  He tried to communicate what he wanted soundless, but Ofélia stared at him, confusion marring her beautiful face. Gustavo saved her from Atlas’ bubbling ire.

  “Aarón, you’re late as usual,” their suave host shook hands with the shorter, bulkier, darker male. Slapping Aarón’s shoulder, Gustavo turned him to Atlas, bringing the two men to face off.

  “Señor Atlas, allow me to introduce my tedious friend, Aarón Flores. Aarón, my new friend, Atlas Neville,” and he stepped aside, fading to the background for Atlas as he concentrated on this Aarón.

  Aarón held out his hand first.

  Losing his cool, Atlas also lost his chance to prove he was unaffected.

  But he wasn’t going to make a fool out of himself by not accepting.

  He grudgingly grasped into the handshake, measuring the other man by his swift, tight grip. Annoyed that he had to flex his hand at Aarón’s strength, Atlas figured moping around wasn’t getting him the results that brought him this far in his business play.

  So he went for the throat, Atlas-style.

  “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Flores. I apologize for pulling you back,” he said this to Ofélia, lowering his voice and matching his expression to his tone.

  Simpering, he’d call it if his gut didn’t do that flip-flop thing it liked to do around Ofélia. As usual staring into her eyes made him forget the play-acting and blurred the lines of his fake emotions and the genuine apology Atlas knew was mixed in there.

  “Only I don’t appreciate random men hugging my fiancée. And I wasn’t sure who you were.” Atlas decided it was easier to focus on Aarón after all, even if he desired nothing more than punching the guy in the face.

  “Fiancée?” Aarón echoed.

  “Yes. As in soon-to-be married, betrothed, future Mrs. Atlas Neville,” short of saying it in Spanish, he was laying it on, rapid-fire, making sure this guy thought twice about groping Ofélia during the rest of their evening.

  “You’re getting married, Ofélia?”

  Atlas gritted his teeth.

  Why was he asking her? What, he wasn’t believable enough for this knuckle-headed moron?

  Atlas waited for Ofélia to answer. She did, but slowly and tentatively.

  “Yes.” As soon as she said it, Ofélia dropped her head over his chest, because his arm was trapping her against him, and she didn’t have anywhere to go, to probably hide her embarrassment.

  No way. No. Way.

  He nudged her head away, and called her name.

  Ofélia answered as he expected, tilting up for his surprise kiss.

  Atlas covered her mouth, the action stealing his breath, his thoughts. Every synapse was firing off for Ofélia and their locked lips. It took him right back to his living room in the thirteen-hundred square foot condo, a prized piece of property in the San Diego Gaslamp Quarter, and his beloved home for a few months.

  He stroked her lips apart with his tongue, and she granted him easy entrance. Arms circling her waist, Atlas brought her to him, his mouth mimicking the gesture and intensifying the pressure.

  He’d forgotten they had an audience.

  Everyone save Aarón was smiling. The other man looked like he’d taken his tequila without sangrita.

  Ha. Doesn’t feel good does it, buddy?

  The childish thought gave way to something darker, more possessive as Aarón said, “I’m sorry you thought that way, señor. Ofélia and I are friends, but we were a couple once. Hugging used to come with the territory. Even though that was a while ago, right? Five years now, Ofélia?”

  Atlas’ jaw locked as Ofélia, kissed thoroughly, used him as a getaway from facing everyone post-make out, her nod rubbing his chest.

  “We did a lot of that kind of thing and other things couples do. Like kiss. But has it really been five years?” Aarón scratched his shaven jaw and chuckled lightly. “It’s been a while.”

  “Almost as long as your taking the time to visit. I’m surprised you even called me.” Gustavo stepped forward and gripped Aarón’s shoulder, and perfect timing for Atlas busting Aarón nose in and crapping over the deal with Mr. Montero and his family.

  “I was in the neighborhood to congratulate you and your beautiful, new wife, my friend,” Aarón said, his eyes straying back to the top of Ofélia’s head, unbeknownst to her as she pressed closer to him.

  Atlas concentrated on her warm breath piercing his shirt and heating his blood.

  All he had to remember was Ofélia was in his arms, not Aarón’s and he’d be fine.

  Not that it stopped him from reacting by holding her closer, an alarm bell sounding off in his head. He didn’t care anymore for appearing unprofessional. Ofélia was his, for as long as their contract stood, and Aarón would have to learn to back off and accept he lost his chance half a decade ago as he put it.

  The Oriols might have sensed something as Agata roused Atlas’ attention from his staring match with Aarón.

  “Well, you arrived just in time Aarón.” Their pretty hostess wrapped her arms around her husband’s middle, stroking his little gut lovingly. “Gustavo and I wanted to show señor Neville and señorita Ofélia around Ensenada, also called the Cinderella city of Mexico.”

  Atlas would agree if his jaw wasn’t locked. Better he said nothing right now, nodding instead to show his hosts that he was listening and agreeing to their suggestion.

  The cool night’s air was what he could use, even if Ofélia’s douche-bag of an ex would be sharing the same breath for a little longer.

&nbs
p; “Count me in then,” Aarón said, letting Gustavo lead him away. Atlas tried to return Agata’s smile; it felt flat though, and so did his farewell to Mr. Montero who stepped out from what he called ‘a youth’s adventure’.

  Now not only was he worried that he might be giving the wrong impression, Atlas scowled at the predatory look in Aarón’s eyes as he suggested they all take his four-wheeler.

  “You can sit up front with me, señor Neville,” he slipped into the driver’s, inciting Gustavo to help his wife into the back and then reaching to do the same for Ofélia. Everyone took to Aarón’s command. It irked Atlas as it left him with no leg to stand on.

  And far be it that he made himself out to be an ass or, as Tom loved to remind him, a party pooper. Though the Oriols’ suggestion, Aaron led the tour of the city, his annoying voice pointing out the landmarks and associated history of the metropolis the car was whizzing through.

  He was lucky Atlas valued his life and the lives of the people in the back or he’d punch Aarón for what he said next.

  “They call it the Cinderella City perhaps as it is muy beautiful, but not recognized for its beauty,” he said at one point, his car winding up a valley, revealing the sparkling city in twilight. “Sadly not all beauty is given its deserving praise.”

  It was fleeting, but Aarón consulted his rear-view mirror, and Atlas trailed his gaze to Ofélia sitting opposite the passenger beside Agata. She was looking away, face turned to the night’s breeze, eyes soaking up the sights, oblivious to the mental struggle happening in the front between her past and present.

  Blissfully the tour was cut short when Agata cited light-headedness from the champagne. At the entrance of her apartment their hostess apologized.

  “No problem at all, señora Oriol. There will hopefully be plenty of opportunity to see the city in the near future, yes?” Atlas kept his tone light, but his hands curled into fists in his pockets.

  Atlas held his tongue until he turned the lock on their bedroom door. It was a miracle he hadn’t crashed the car; the drive a hazy, fast blur in his mind, and he couldn’t blame the alcohol he’d barely sipped.

  “Did you set that up then?”

  Ofélia shook her head, eyes wide, knowing exactly what he was talking about. She stood at the foot of their bed – their bed. Crap, he’d almost forget they had to share it, to keep up pretenses even when Montero was not around. Gossip among his workers could be as lethal to their planning, so pretense it was.

  Frankly, he wouldn’t have minded. Ofélia slept in his home once, and he’d popped in to check on her twice, once to make sure she was comfortable and the second time to see if she was up for breakfast.

  He’d learnt she was a late riser, not a first-meal-of-the-day kind of person at all, and a decent enough sleeper.

  Given the mood he was in now, the idea of sleeping beside her seemed a cruel punishment for the both of them.

  “I didn’t know Aarón would be there.”

  Atlas tensed at the old boyfriend’s name, forgetting all about their sleeping arrangements.

  “No?” he laughed; the sound both bitter and short. Surely she couldn’t expect him to believe that.

  Try harder, Ofélia. Give me more of a challenge.

  Aloud he said, “Odd coincidence. Like a melodrama unfolding, wouldn’t you think? Your old boyfriend shows up to our dinner party.”

  “I said I didn’t know,” she shook with anger, hands curled like her lip. Like she had a right to be angry – he was the one left out in the cold, and his quick thinking saved them from having to pick up the pieces of their sham in front of their dinner companions.

  Tearing off the cuff links and undoing bowtie and first two buttons, Atlas laughed again. “Whatever. Next time give me a heads-up when you want to play me.”

  He had meant to turn into the bathroom, lock the door, take a warm shower to relieve the knots through his body, and remedy the strange, and very naughty, protectiveness he’d gotten when Ofélia’s attention strayed to that former fling of hers.

  “Stop!” Ofélia stamped her foot when he turned to appraise her. She stamped the opposite foot this time when he gave her a head shake, his tongue pausing mid-cluck. “You do not dare do that! I am not a child, you know. You cannot treat me like this and think I won’t have something to say about it.”

  “First of all, I’d appreciate if you kept your voice lowered.” Atlas walked to the door, checking the locks were in place. As long as they didn’t see them, he could swing any rumors to a he-said basis. “Now, how am I treating you exactly, Ofélia?”

  “Like that,” she shook a hand out, exasperation scrunching her brow and wrinkling her nose. “Dios! Do you hear yourself?”

  She was throwing his fighting words back at him, when before their dinner hitch she’d made him believe he was holding her hostage to his plan, to being his mail-order fiancée.

  Was he no better than his brother, her face accused and he was back to tossing the question about his mind.

  Atlas smoothed a hand over his face, wishing the conflicting anger and sympathy would fall away. He gathered his thoughts, judged the situation for what it was, and accounted Ofélia’s accusations.

  “Fine. I apologize if you felt that I’ve been mistreating you.”

  “You have,” she insisted, and Atlas sighed.

  “Sorry for making you feel belittled. It’s not at all what I intended to do when we struck up this partnership.”

  She folded her arms over her chest, exaggerating a lift to her breasts. The dress had been a simple, but pretty choice for her. It complimented her dark, sexy eyes, strong jaw and nose and juicy mouth.

  Ofélia’s personality was more like the innocent dress.

  She sounded like she knew what she was doing; starting with signing up to that bridal agency and engineering the mail-order service that brought her to Tom and now this, and all to find her brother and unite her family as she asked him, expected him to help her do at the end of this charade.

  It was admirable. A little crazy, but admirable and made her appear no less in his mind, despite what she thought he thought of her.

  Ofélia, you’re one of a kind, really.

  And Atlas hoped her loved ones knew what lengths she was capable of going to for them. He would have liked to have her on his side.

  Instead he had Tom, and his stepmother, and dead parents who left nothing but their legendary love in his mind. Oh, and the resort they’d fallen in love and honeymooned at – the same resort that belonged to the Montero family, and the place he hoped to be finalizing purchase of by the end of this journey.

  “Atlas?” Ofélia had been calling out to him, and when she had his attention she said, “Are you using the bathroom? I really…” She flushed, finishing off her sentence in that adorable way.

  His lips lifted slightly, unable to help himself especially given the tense mood moments ago. “Go ahead.”

  For the first time in the last two days, Atlas wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  And for the first time in his adult life, it was starting to look like he was regretting a business plan.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Atlas woke up feeling better than when he slept.

  Dawn chased away his cloudy thoughts, and he stretched his arm up from the pillow barricade he’d erected with Ofélia.

  Only the barricade was moving. And mumbling and rolling over…

  “Ofélia,” her name slipped out as she clung to his chest, her eyes closed, and her lips parting for more sleep nonsense.

  “No. Not yet. Stay,” she clung to him. “Jesús, Catrine. Mhm, Mom…”

  All right. Not nonsense at all.

  Atlas shifted, uncomfortable to the witnessing of her dreams, her thoughts in this most vulnerable position.

  “Ofélia? You’re not with your family, Ofélia. Wake up.”

  No dice. She was fast asleep, knocked out by their drinking last night.

  Unlike him, she’d tried the wine from the Oriols
and Mr. Montero. Atlas always hated champagne. It was too dry, too sweet at times – he’d never bothered to acquire the taste, even when they kept a booze tradition at his realtor’s agency, Neville & Co., and they popped a bottle for clients after a successful house sale or buy.

  Then he’d opt for grape juice or some similar colored liquid to give those same clients the sense of camaraderie. Tom was right about one thing, no one really liked a party pooper.

  “Ofélia,” he tried weakly, giving up and verifying what he knew to be true.

  Atlas finally spied the pillows knocked to the footboard and at least a couple on the sides of the bed. At least he knew how she got to be on top of him. He dropped his head back down after assessing the situation. Her upper half was positioned over his, her legs pointing towards her sides.

  “Please… Abuela, please, don’t. Not…again… Mi padre…” Ofélia pleaded with her phantoms, unbeknownst of her reality. She was really clueless.

  Cute and clueless, Atlas sighed at the thought. He had other problems to worry about without adding his little schoolboy crush to the mix.

  Yes, he’d finally come to terms with it: He had developed a weakness for Ofélia. A weakness that rivaled anything Atlas came close to with any of his former girlfriends, and it was a short list.

  A busy man, he had went straight from school into internships and then forging the path for a business of his own in his beloved real estate world. Atlas hadn’t had the time for women, not then.

  And not now.

  He liked Ofélia, but he had any plans to act on it.

  She had played a part by pushing at him last night, letting him have it.

  No one, not even his stepmother who had paraded around the Neville home while his father was alive like she’d always been its first mistress, had held that kind of sway over him. Ofélia called him out and the last thought he slept with last night was how sexy she’d looked while doing it.

  In his mind sports, Atlas sensed the position of his hands.

  He’d been holding Ofélia by her shoulders, but his hands switched her to her back, fingers brushing the hem of her soft, cotton nightshirt as it rode up to reveal a splash of caramel skin and two cute dimples.