by Misti Murphy
“Hey,” I protest, and the three of them laugh while Myra furrows her brow and smiles. “Besides,” I add. “I’m not sure it’s proper business etiquette for Myra to experience me drunk on her first day on the job.”
Ronnie cracks up while Garrett snorts and Paynt steps around my desk to peer at the computer screen. “Looks like you got your email up and running.”
“Myra did,” I say.
“You’re a keeper,” Paynter says. “James needs someone to take care of the little things for him.”
“That’s what I’m best at,” Myra says, flashing that beautiful smile again. Garrett’s watching her, the look on his face telling me he’s going to hit on her the first opportunity he gets.
“How about we have our first drinks with fellow co-workers, rather than my obnoxious family?” I suggest.
“Whatever,” Ronnie says, rolling her eyes again. She whips a card out of her purse and offers it to Myra. “Call me. Let’s do lunch while I’m in town. Something tells me you and I will get along swimmingly.”
“Sure.” Myra smiles like she’s genuinely interested in pursuing a relationship with my sister. As long as it’s not Garrett, I can live with it.
Paynt snaps my laptop closed. “Time to go. We’ve already worked out the first stop, and we need to get there before happy hour ends.”
“Do you have an access card for the building?” I ask Myra as I hastily shove my computer into its bag.
“I’m all set,” she says, stepping away from the desk so I can join my siblings, who are all three making hurry up motions with their hands. “Go. Have fun. And happy birthday.”
***
Myra returns from the kitchen, pulling me out of the recollection. She lifts the bottle she’s brought, along with her own drink, and offers to refresh mine. “Thanks,” I mutter as she splashes dark liquid into my glass.
“I’m certain you aren’t supposed to drink, but I’m equally convinced you will refuse to follow your doctor’s orders.”
She knows me far too well. Better than anyone else in my life. And she’s right, of course. I should probably eat to soak up some of this alcohol. Pretty sure the mingled effects of booze and pain meds are why I feel so lightheaded at the moment. Or maybe it’s the way that robe rides high on her thighs when she sits in the chair Ronnie recently vacated.
“We’ve become great friends over the years, haven’t we? And business associates,” I murmur, mostly to remind myself of where I stand with her.
Her lips turn down. “We have.”
And friends don’t ogle each other like I’m currently doing to her, do they? Because it would be weird, and uncomfortable, and a little bit ridiculous given our professional relationship. “You’re indispensable, Myra. You’re my Supergirl. I’m not sure I can live without you. I really wish you’d reconsider your resignation.”
“James.” She leans forward, her robe gaping again. My gaze can’t seem to settle; it keeps darting from her legs to the curve of her breast and back again. And back again. And then she crosses one leg over the other and I catch my breath, my hand shaking because it wants to reach out and smooth over that silken, exposed skin. Which is so wrong. What’s in these pain pills the doctor gave me anyway?
She’s my admin, my right hand—at the moment, literally. I’m awfully damn helpless until my wrist heals. I need her, especially for the next week or so. If she knew the state of my mind right now she’d probably hightail it out of here without bothering with the two weeks’ notice she promised. And if she does that, I won’t have the time I need to convince her to stay.
Clearing my throat, I place my drink on the coffee table and tug my computer back into place on my lap, which is still a little off-kilter thanks to the hard-on that hasn’t yet deflated.
With my gaze on the computer screen, I say, “I’m hungry. Do you think you could make us something to eat?”
There is no sound for a long moment, and then I hear her sigh followed by a rustling noise. “Let me go put some clothes on, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
I glance up as she walks away, her ass swaying under that thin robe. And even though two dozen emails are demanding my attention, all I can think is, She isn’t wearing any clothes.
Chapter Five
MYRA
Myra, you’re my Supergirl.
Myra, you’re indispensable.
Myra, what would I do without you?
Myra, can you make me something to eat?
Standing at the end of his bed, I’m two seconds away from doing my nut. I had to leave the room before I lost my cool. Sometimes I can be so incredibly gullible. Or is it naïve? Or perhaps unrealistically optimistic. My stupid heart practically leapt out from between the lapels of my robe when his gaze settled on my breasts. But, of course, he then had to go and draw a line that put me squarely in a box. Friends. Colleagues. That’s all. Well, I’ll show him where he can shove his friends and colleagues...
The gray silk sheets are creased and rumpled and pushed to the bottom of the bed. I yank them off the incredibly comfortable mattress. Sex sheets? Hard to tell since James barely has time to meet anyone. I’d know if he did. Hell, I practically run the man’s life. At any rate, someone got frisky on them even if it wasn’t James. I couldn’t help myself.
I toss the dirty sheets into the corner of the room and grimace. A couple of hours ago I took some guilty pleasure in holding the silky material to my nose and inhaling his scent. I might be a junkie for eu de sexy man. I may have gotten a little turned on over sliding between his sheets naked. I told myself it would only be for a few seconds. Just a couple of minutes. I’d keep my hands where I could see them. I wouldn’t go fantasizing about James climbing into bed with me. I wouldn’t take it too far by imagining him between my thighs. Under me. His muscular torso hot under my palms while I rolled my hips to take more of him, while being careful of his injuries. Christ, I was supposed to be working out how to change our relationship or give up on it, not get off.
But what’s a little guilty indulgence between friends?
I’d woken up with my hand still between my thighs, and I could hear Ronnie downstairs. So I pulled on my robe, cinched it around my waist, and washed my hands before going downstairs to say good-bye.
Only to hear Ronnie tease him about not having a clue. Did she have any idea how much more uncomfortable that was for me than it was for him? Especially when he’s adamant about us being professional. And then he comes out with how he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get along without me...is there any chance he could mean it? Is there any way I didn’t imagine the way his focus kept moving to my ass?
I undo the sash on my robe and drop it over the foot of the unmade bed. My suitcase sits near his door, the sides bulging, and I drag it to the bed. It opens like a can of surprise springs, clothes and shoes flopping over the sides as soon as I get the zip undone. I pull out a red Christian Louboutin and raise an eyebrow. Can’t say I remember packing that. I dig for the other and pull out a purple peep toe. Great. Just great. I can run James’s life with almost military precision. All the details. All the arrangements. Every single piece in its place no matter what real-life intrusion. But I cannot for the life of me pack two shoes that match when I’m planning a seduction? Bloody hell.
I toss the shoes into the opposite corner from the sheets. James’s room isn’t going to be immaculate for much longer. Pushing clothes over the edge of my suitcase, I search for my underwear. Panties? Bras? Nada. My suitcase is as much a mess as my personal life. Everything’s on the bed before I find a pair of granny Spanx and my striped knee-high socks. Fuzzy pink, black, and gray socks I wouldn’t be caught wearing outside of my house. How am I supposed to seduce him in beige fat suckers?
I glance at the socks I hold in one hand, the Spanx in my other. Maybe the way he reacted when I tried to kiss him was merely shock. I sprang myself on him when he wasn’t prepared for it. Maybe it wasn’t as much the final blow as I assumed it was. Perhaps he just needs some time.
A bit of convincing. A little less granny panties and a whole lot less let’s be friends.
I drop the socks and fling the stretchy underwear across the room. They land on the heel of the upside down Louboutin. Which leaves me with one problem. I still don’t have any underwear.
My gaze lands on his dresser, and I bite my lip. My stomach flips. Would he mind terribly? Or would he get all hot and bothered at the idea? I pick up a white ribbed tank and pull it over my head. Luckily, I’ve always been small enough to get away without a bra. Grabbing my capris with a grin, I sail across the room and yank open his top drawer.
Minutes later, I hurry down the stairs to find James still on the couch with his laptop on his knee. His brow is furrowed and one of his legs has a constant shake. He’s been in one place too long and it’s clearly starting to bug him.
“Do you want to join me in the kitchen?”
“I have no idea what I have in there. Might be nothing.” He’s already popping the laptop onto the coffee table, shifting to get up. “I haven’t stocked up recently.”
“Hold on.” I collect the wheelchair from near the front door. “You’re not supposed to put any weight on your ankle yet, despite the boot.”
He struggles off the couch, and I shove my shoulder into his side and wind my arms around his waist to help him get situated in the chair. It’s not like I haven’t gotten close to James bodily. Just last night we were this close while we danced, perhaps closer. But his angular torso is only covered in a thin T-shirt. All those bumps and ridges are hot under my touch. When he sits down, I almost lose my balance and end up in his lap. Shame I catch myself. He gazes at me like perhaps he, too, realizes how easily this could have become intimate. Or he might just be staring at my rack like any man would. Here be boobs, the death of many a man’s focus.
I clear my throat and tell my pulse to slow down. “I’ll push. Save you running into walls.”
“Okay,” he agrees, softy. “Just this once you can be the boss.”
“Not if I can help it,” I whisper under my breath. I kind of like the idea of bossing him around in ways he’s probably never imagined. At least not with me.
“What was that?” He cranes his neck to look back at me, and the heat that started building as I went through his perfectly neat rows of socks and jocks grows.
“I said salad. I’ll make a salad. You always have green stuff in your fridge.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s mold.” He snorts.
“Ah. Yes. Okay. We better see what else you’ve got then.” Another perfectly seductive moment of opportunity blown. I’ve spent so many years being everything for James that my dating life has suffered. I am so out of practice. This is going to take a real conscious effort.
I wheel him into the kitchen and leave him to watch while I raid his fridge and pantry. He’s got a few tomatoes, onions, and a couple of chicken breasts. I hold the container of greens out like a trophy. “See. Salad greens, and they’re still edible.”
“Unbelievable,” he says while I search out wooden sticks I can use for kebobs and wineglasses from a top cupboard.
I pour a couple of glasses of wine from a bottle in the wine fridge and pass one to James. “It’s a shame no one gets to use this kitchen, don’t you think? It’s such a great spot for a little wining and dining.”
“You know I can’t cook.” He focuses on his phone, most likely checking his email, while I start dicing chicken.
If only my own kitchen were as nice as this. If only I had time to cook more often. Although now that I’m finishing up at Frost Inc., I suppose I’ll have plenty of time for experimental gourmet meals. “We should have done this more often. The two of us.”
James doesn’t respond. The man never stops working. Ever. Does he even take time off to take care of his needs?
I almost ask him, since the last few brilliant moments have slipped past me. I glance at him, and, sure enough, he has his phone in his hand, but he’s stopped tapping the screen. Instead, his gaze is locked on my boobs. My nipples perk up; the thin cotton is almost painful across them. So this is why I wear a bra.
“That’s some serious focus, James. Are you all right?”
“What? Sorry?” He shifts his attention to my face. “I was thinking about the meeting with George Hollister. We’re so close to acquiring Hollister Developments.”
“Oh. Here I thought you were staring at my tits.”
“At your...” His gaze runs a triangle between my face and both breasts. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I wasn’t. I would never.”
I find myself swallowing too against a sudden rush of saliva. You’d think I would be used to my body’s unwanted response to my boss, but I’m not. It only gets worse. “It’s okay. I mean if you were. They’re kind of out there today.”
“Y-you’re not wearing a bra.”
It’s more of an observation than a question, but I run with it. After all, I was hoping the lack of a bra might spark curiosity. I pop the rest of the chicken sticks onto a plate so I can take them out to the patio grill. “No, I’m not. I seem to have forgotten to pack any underthings.”
“Any underthings?” His brows pull together as he clamps his hands tightly around his phone on his lap. His eyes widen. “As in...?”
“No bras, no panties.” I shrug. Inside I am dying to drown my embarrassment in wine as red as I imagine my cheeks would be if I weren’t putting all my effort into staying cool and composed. After all, I’m trying to ruffle my boss, seduce him.
“No panties?” he asks gruffly.
Poor guy. The way his throat muscles work as though he’s going to swallow his tongue gives me a thrill. He’s had a hard day. He’s propped up on medication and Johnny Walker Blue. This probably isn’t very chivalrous of me.
“No panties.”
“You’re...”
“The word’s commando, I believe.”
“Commando then. Do you want to race home and pack some more things? Some, uh, underthings?”
“Why, James, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you so speechless.”
“I’m not.” He shifts and the wheelchair bounces and squeaks under him. “I’m not speechless. I’m just…that can’t be particularly comfortable in those pants.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” I turn away to grab the wine and to keep from grinning at his utter discomfort. Although, really, I have no idea if he’s uncomfortable because he likes my being commando or because he doesn’t. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I top off my glass. Either way, whatever happens this week is the last-ditch effort of a desperate person.
“I’m not commando.”
“You’re not.”
Does he sound relieved? Lifting the glass to my lips, I down a mouthful. “Of course not. I’m wearing yours.”
His jaw drops. “Mine?”
“Yep. I figured you wouldn’t mind.” I pick up the plate. “After all, I’m indispensable, and you need me. Is that correct? Even more so this week? And you want to give me whatever I need to stick around?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he says slowly. “But I don’t understand what that’s got to do with my boxer briefs.”
“Nothing really.” I open the back door as he wheels across the tiles behind me. “Except that right now I need to get into your pants.”
Chapter Six
JAMES
Did she really just say she wants in my pants? Because apparently, she already is. The same cotton that normally cups my balls is rubbing between her legs right now.
How am I supposed to react to this? How am I not supposed to be bowled over by the idea of her wanting in my pants? Or the fact that she’s wearing my Jockeys right now?
My body refuses to behave, latching onto the conundrum like a drowning man. Why can I not seem to get a handle on things since she walked through the door this morning? It’s Myra, for God’s sake.
I try to chase after her, but it’s hard maneuvering this stupid wheelchair with only one hand. As
hard as the erection tenting my pants. Rather, my brother’s pants. I want out of his, Myra wants into mine.
That is what she said, isn’t it? I didn’t imagine those words coming from her mouth?
The wheeled chair slams into the cabinet, jarring my broken ankle. “Goddamn it!” Gritting my teeth, I surge forward until the narrow rubber wheels bump into the raised threshold of the doorway leading out onto the patio.
She’s left the screen open, so while I can’t get outside without her help, I can at least watch while she familiarizes herself with the grill. She’s dancing while she turns on the gas, humming to a song in her head. While her breasts are small, they still move slightly as she bounces, and the nipples are so hard they stab at the shirt, creating an outline that’s almost as clear as staring at the real thing.
My shirt. She’s wearing my undershirt and boxers. Not exactly the image her words conjure in my mind. I’d rather her hand be in those boxers while they’re on my body.
No, I wouldn’t. Okay, yes, I would, but I shouldn’t want that. Not from Myra.
“What do you mean, you need to get into my pants?” Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey have nothing on the moves my mind is conjuring at the moment.
No, that can’t be what she means. That’s not who we are. “Are you sure that’s what you meant to say?”
“Oh.” She glances up from where she’s laying out skewered meat and vegetables on the cast iron grates. Her cheeks flame, red splotches that she probably thinks make her look terrible, but are damned endearing. “With Chloe on her honeymoon and you indisposed, I assume you expect me to run the business for the next two weeks. Which means I need to get into your…”
“Head?” That doesn’t help. Not when the one in my pants is throbbing.
“I need to get into your head. Yes, that’s the proper phrase.”
“Yeah, that’s the proper phrase.” I clear my throat. Head. Head. Head. I close my eyes and try not to picture her moving closer, dropping to her knees... “I don’t think you’ll have a difficult time of it. You know me better than anyone else. Better than I know myself.”