The gloriously short filing cabinet.
I watched as she went about her business, wondering how I’d managed to so effectively blind myself to her. I worked really hard at treating every single employee with fairness and without prejudices. I could remember the looks Dean had given me when he’d thought I wasn’t looking, and the friendly crinkles at the corners of Pam’s eyes. The devil was in the details, my dad had always told me, and I did my best to notice them. Except for hers.
As I tried to picture her smile from memory—and couldn’t—I knew all of my compartmentalizing engines must have been running at full fucking steam to protect me from getting into something I shouldn’t.
But those engines weren’t running now, the override switch turned and fully engaged thanks to Meddling-Mom-Maureen, and as the fabric of Georgia’s creamy white dress pulled tight over her ass, alarms started blaring.
“My neck.”
A sway of her tight-white-fabric-covered hips accompanied her off-key singing.
Something told me she didn’t know I was standing behind her.
“My back.”
More torture in the opposite direction.
“Lick my *—”
Ears bleeding. Pants tightening.
“—and my crack.”
Holy. Fuck.
I had to stop her before it got even worse. Better.
Quickly, I shook my head to clear it and then reached forward to tap her smooth shoulder.
Hair flung out in an arc, she turned on her heel at warp speed, her eyes widening in horror as she pulled on a white cord to release an earbud from her ear.
“Shit.”
I smiled. Her eyes widened impossibly further.
“Mr. Brooks. I’m so sorry.” She clamped her eyes shut in shame. “I didn’t know anyone else was still here.”
Her face was mostly hidden in shadow as she tilted it to the ground, but I was still almost positive I saw her mouth the word ‘shit’ again.
“It’s all right,” I offered, and her head snapped up in question. I grinned slightly. “The singing and the shits. In fact, if you really need to, you can say it again.”
Her face froze in shock.
“I can tell you want to,” I prodded. “Maybe even three or four more times.”
“Three. Four.” She shrugged helplessly. “Forty, maybe.”
“Forty shits?” I questioned, raising a brow in amusement.
“Depends on how much you actually heard, I guess.”
I craned my neck to one side and back again.
“I’m not sure. I’m feeling particularly attuned to your neck and back, and, well, the rest I’m not sure I can say in an office environment.”
“Oh my God,” she cried and sank her face into her hands, embarrassment renewed.
“Definitely forty shits. Maybe even fifty.”
I coughed on a chuckle before tucking it away, knowing it was the perfect time to get on with what I needed.
“It’s okay. I know how you can redeem yourself.”
Her gaze jerked up from the floor and her eyes widened with hope. “Yeah?”
“Tomorrow night. Go to the benefit for the Children’s Hospital with me.”
Horror contorted her face into a scrunched-up version of itself. Not exactly what I was going for.
“What? Go to the…with you… No.” She shook her head frantically, desperately even, her bright red hair swinging to and fro before settling helplessly on the white fabric at her shoulders.
“No.”
I had to admit, the double, emphatic nos threw me a little. It wasn’t that I thought no one could turn me down. They could, and hell, they probably should. But they hadn’t in a long time.
Not in a very long time.
“You’re busy?” I offered as an excuse, hoping her visible discomfort was more about being caught off guard than anything else.
One slim wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and the corners of her eyes seemed to pinch together slightly. “No. Not busy.”
Ouch.
For the first time in quite a while, I struggled to find my words. “I…uh…well. Okay.”
She forced a fake smile in response.
And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to give up.
Walking around her desk and into her space enough that she backed up a couple of steps, I leaned my ass into the surface behind me and crossed my arms.
She rubbed goosebumps from her arms in a nervous fidget.
“So, how definite is this ‘no’? Is it an ‘I’m mildly considering it, but I’m thinking no’ or a ‘not a snowflake’s chance in hell no’ or maybe somewhere in the middle where negotiation lives?”
She shook her head as if mystified and tapped the toe of her stiletto twice.
My gaze shot down the length of her legs and back again, only to find her bright cerulean eyes narrowed slightly at the end of my circuit.
“I’m not disgusted with you, if that’s what you’re asking, but negotiation isn’t likely.”
Jim Carrey inhabited my body and took over my vocal chords before I could stop him. “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”