Page 154 of Hate You More

I should turn around. Leave.

If Troy is preoccupied, the last thing he’ll be interested in is jam-jar sex.

The door swings open, my analysis paralysis busted. Paolo smiles shortly at me. He looks stressed, though he says hello as he ducks around me, leaving the door open for me to pass.

Troy is on the phone, sleeves rolled up and jaw tight, and there’s a sharpness to his voice I haven’t heard since that Friday he found me in this building dressed in an apron.

“. . . I’ve heard your opinion,” he says without glancing up. “You don’t get it. We’re not the kind of position where we can give two fucks.” Is this boardroom-mode Troy?

Maybe I should call back when he’s less preoccupied. But at that moment, he looks up and spots me. I’m already stepping into the room when I realize that his surprise wasn’t exactly accompanied by delight.

Bracing, I repeat to myself. Whatever that means.

I’ll tell him I was just passing. That I only have a few minutes to spare. Only, my trench coat, this lipstick, these heels and stockings say otherwise.

“I know that,” he says, the phone still at his ear. I slip off my coat and set it and my purse to the couch. Lord, the lick of heat against my skin as his eyes drink me in. “You know where I stand.” Meanwhile, I’m not sure how I’m still upright, given the way my knees have turned to taffy.

He finishes the call without a farewell and sets the handset down.

“Hey.” I link my hands together at the small of my back. A cheap shot, but an effective one, as his gaze drops to my breasts.

“It’s a surprise to see you.” He frowns, one finger rubbing his eyebrow.

“A good one, I hope.”

“Dressed like you’re about to . . . audit me?” he says, sidestepping that.

That wasn’t one of his fantasies, was it? It wasn’t the one I picked out of the jar, anyway.

“You didn’t respond to my text,” I say, taking a couple of slinking catlike steps his way.

His brow furrows as he picks up his phone, his thumb sliding across the screen. His eyebrows lift as he sees what he sees. I thought I’d shake it up a little. Instead of the unfolded square of paper, I took a photo of a pair of red silky panties along with my Velma glasses.

“Hello, Mr. Templeton.” I keep my tone coy, though my gaze is bold. “I’m your twelve thirty.”

“My twelve thirty what?”

“Appointment, silly.” In for a dime, in for a dollar, right? “You wanted to go through me—I mean, go through my review. Personally, you said.”

My breath holds as he processes that.

“Your six-month review?” His voice drops, his eyes half horny, half amused.

My answer is to nod like my head is 90 percent air. “One moment, please.” I turn back to the couch and bend over my purse, pretending to search for something. I hear the leather of the chair creak as he sits back. At least I have his attention. And my butt in the air as I angle it his way. “It’s in here somewhere.”

“What are you looking for?” The rasp in his tone makes me long for his hands, a roughness in his hold.

“My notes.” My fingers close around an old pocketbook. Then like Elle Woods herself, I snap upright with a tiny but visible jiggle of the girls through my thin blouse. “Found it!”

I totter over to his desk, flip closed the cover of a report, sliding it away without asking him. Then I move his laptop to the right while leaning over him. My blouse gapes, as intended, and he doesn’t miss the flash of cleavage, the hint of my lacey bra.

“That’s better.” I turn with a smile and lean back against the edge of his desk, my thigh almost touching his chair. I make a show of straightening my Velma glasses before opening my pocketbook.

“So . . .” A smile tugs at his lips. Mine now, too, because I have him.

“It’s Candy, sir,” I offer with a simper. “And while I’m sure you have a lot of ideas what to do with me, I wondered if I could just take a moment to be honest with you.” I toy a little with the strands of my hair and give a ridiculous flutter of my lashes.

“Of course, Candy. Go ahead.”