“No.” He starts walking toward his office and I follow closely at his side. It’s always a question what kind of Rath I’m going to get in the morning. Sometimes he’s lighter than usual, gives me a tick of the corner of his mouth in greeting, and then there are mornings like today when he’s the ever-sour asshole who replies monosyllabically.
“You seem grumpy this morning. Is there a reason for the grumpiness? Did you have a date last night that went horribly wrong? If so, do tell, I love dating mishaps.”
He pauses and looks at me. “Do you really think I have time to date?”
“Maybe, I don’t know what you do when you leave the office. Are you not dating?”
I know it’s a question I shouldn’t ask but I’m honestly curious. What does Rath do after he leaves the office? Works out, that’s for sure, but what else? Does he have a rolodex of booty calls he refers to? Does he go home and cook a hearty meal? Does he have a special show he likes to watch? Or maybe he’s a binger of comedy specials on Netflix—that one would be shocking given his no-nonsense attitude.
“No. Are you?” he snaps back. I’m pretty sure he surprises himself with the question, because he clears his throat and walks into his office before he can hear my reply. I love when I can work him up into a tizzy this early in the morning.
“No,” I call out after him. “No, I’m not. So, no need to worry about any crazy boyfriends coming into the office demanding sex on my desk, or any ex-fiancés for that matter . . .” I trail off, realizing my mistake the minute I say it.
Crap.
Of course, being the smart and observant man that he is, he says, “Ex-fiancé?” From his desk he quirks a brow in question.
Nervously, I tug on my peplum shirt. “You know . . . if I had one.”
“Do you?”
I wave my hand at him. “That’s neither here nor there.” Avoidance. Avoidance.
I take a seat in the chair across from his desk and look anywhere but at him, because all I can feel is his unwavering stare, boring holes into me, his questions lingering on the tip of his tongue. He’s not stupid, he can see right through me. It’s been like that from the beginning, impossible to hide anything from him. And the worst part of it all, he’s so good at showing zero emotion and staying stone-faced most of the time that I can barely register what he’s thinking.
All I get are small gestures here and there that I attempt to decipher. A click of his pen. A tug on his sleeve. A clench of his jaw. His mood is unwavering most of the time, which makes it extremely hard to predict what he’s going to do or say next.
Blushing from embarrassment, I sink into my chair, pop open the cap to my pen, and fold my notebook open, mentally pleading with Rath to drop it and move on.
Quickly, I glance up at him and just like I thought, he’s staring at me but with a furrowed brow. And for once, I can see it, the question hanging, ready to be asked, and just when I think he’s going to question me, he grabs the correct color pen for the day and then holds it out to me. We “cheers” our pens like we do every weekday and get down to business.
Even though I’m taking notes and paying attention to everything he’s talking about, I can’t help but focus on the fact that Rath didn’t question me, that he was able to see how uncomfortable I was and move on. It’s a gesture I truly appreciate.
He might be silent at times and it drives me crazy, but I know what he’s doing. He’s observing, taking in the person he’s interacting with—reading their body language—and he makes his next move based off that.
He let it go this time, but knowing Rath Westin, I don’t think he’ll drop it forever.
After we go over the day’s tasks and he hands me the list, he says, “I’m taking the weekend off as well.”
“Oh? Have any plans?”
“Just some things with friends. Staying in the city, if you’re wondering.”
“Oh, so nothing exotic. No trip to Belize where you’ll have a torrid affair with an islander only to take off Sunday night without a way to communicate with you?”
He shakes his head and picks up the smoothie in front of him. “Those books you read are getting to your head.”
“Don’t you mean the books we read?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mm-hmm.” I reach to the side of his desk and plop a gift bag on his desk. “This is for you.”
He looks at it but doesn’t touch it. “It’s not my birthday.”
“It doesn’t need to be your birthday for me to get you something special. Don’t forget the Skittles you gave me for my two weeks of surviving you.”
“More like the two weeks I survived you.” There’s just the slightest bit of humor in his voice, but it gives me life.
“You know, when you make small jokes like that, it really gets my gears going.” His eyes widen and I realize what I implied and try to quickly recover. “Not sexually. Not gears as in my lady loins, but more like . . . brain gears. You know, you mentally stimulate me. Brain orgasm.” I shake my head. “Nope, not orgasm, forget I said orgasm. Just juices in my brain are flowing.” I tap my chin. “You know, even the term juices makes me cringe.”
“This whole conversation is making me cringe.”
“That’s fair. That’s fair.” I wave my notebook over my face to cool down. “Are your butt cheeks sweating too?” When he doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly, I say, “Just me. Okay.” I nod. “Maybe open the damn present and move the conversation along, huh?”
Bewildered, he opens the bag and pulls out a few of the books I picked out for him, and then his eyes narrow in my direction. “What the hell are these?”
“For your personal collection.”
“I don’t read these.”
“Sure, okay.” I wink at him. “Yup, you don’t read them.” I reach into the bag and pull out a book jacket. “Here, this is so you can read them in public and not get embarrassed. You see, this is a book jacket and covers the racy covers so no one knows about the petticoat-ripping books you’re reading. And I got it in a space theme so it looks all manly, like you’re reading science fiction or something.”
Sighing, he puts the books back in the bag and sets the bag on the floor next to him.
“Thank you,” he says, as if it’s the most painful thing he’s ever had to say.
“Which one do you think you’re going to read first? If it were me, I’d choose My Fake Courtship with the Scot. There’s nothing more intriguing than a fake marriage. Am I right?”
He straightens the papers on his desk. “We have work to do.”
“That’s okay. You can act all macho and uninterested in those books, but I know you love them and I can’t wait to get you to admit it.”
“Never going to happen,” he says, shuffling the papers around on his desk again.
“Oh, it will happen, just you wait, Mr. Westin.” He sighs and I hold up my hands before he can chastise me. “Rath, I mean Rath.”
He points to his door. “Go.”
“Yup, on my way out. Don’t worry, I’ll knock before I come in so you can have some privacy with your books.” I give him a wink and then take off. My job here is done.
* * *
Linus: How did he like the books?
Charlee: Pretended not to, of course. I wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.
Linus: If only I recorded Mr. Scott’s reaction for you.
Charlee: Fill my lungs with air and tell me all about it. Give me life.
Linus: His exact response was, “Oh fuck yeah, these are those smutty books Rath was talking about.”
Charlee: LOL! Oh that’s amazing. See, I knew he liked them.
Linus: Mr. Scott wants to start a book club with Rath.
Charlee: Ha, never going to happen.
Linus: Bet you it does.
Charlee: Are you kidding me? Rath would rather die than admit that he likes those books.
Linus: And this is where we differ, because the Rath you
know is not the Rath I know. He’s a loveable, fun guy who will pretty much do anything Mr. Scott asks him. They’re practically married, those two. When Julia started dating Bram, he was more concerned about Bram than his sister. If Bram wants a book club, he’ll get one.
Charlee: Ughhhhh, why do I get stingy business Rath all the time? I want fun, exciting Rath.
Linus: Yeah, not sure he’ll ever show that to you in the office. Outside of it, maybe. Which . . . oh boy, I have an idea.
Charlee: *Rubs hands together* Do tell.
Linus: Bram invited me to game night, told me to bring someone if I wanted to.
Charlee: Sweet baby piglets, please tell me Rath is going.
Linus: Got his acceptance yesterday.
Charlee: And are you going to invite me?
Linus: I would love for you to be my date.
Charlee: Have I ever told you how much I love you?
Linus: Not enough.
Charlee: Well, I love you.
Linus: Music to my ears, but I do need to ask you something, and you can’t get mad at me.
Charlee: It’s rare when I get mad, so no need to hold your balls while you ask.
Linus: You’re so . . . different. LOL. I have to ask, this fascination you have with seeing Rath outside of a business suit, acting like a “normal” person, is it because you’re possibly crushing on your boss?
Charlee: What? No. What made you think that? Of course not. No way. NO. Nope. Not at all. No.
Linus: Mmm . . . okay.
Charlee: Linus! I’m not.
Linus: He’s really handsome.
Charlee: Yes, and he’s rich and has good taste in books, and caring, and one of the nicest people I know, but that doesn’t mean I’m crushing on him.
Linus: Uh-huh.
Charlee: Linus, he’s my boss. I’m not crushing on him.
Linus: Pretty sure every person in New York City is crushing on him, including men.
Charlee: Well I’m not. Not me. Not this girl. Nope. No crushing. None at all.
* * *
I hate Linus.
Well, not really, but I don’t like him right now. He put something in my head that wasn’t true, and now it’s all I can think about.
Did I just look at Rath weird, like I’m crushing on him?
Did I just smile at him because he said something I found funny or because I’m crushing on him?
Did I just look at his lips because I thought I saw some leftover pad thai was on them from the dinner we shared, or is it because I’m crushing on him?
I’m NOT crushing.
Get that through your head, Charlee.
“Ugh.” Rath tosses his pen on the conference room table we’re sharing and leans back in his chair.
He’s rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, removed his tie, and undone the top few buttons of his shirt. His hair is ruffled from the hundreds of times he’s run his hands through it since we’ve been looking over these growth charts. And the knit in his brow that’s been permanent since we finished dinner, shapes his eyebrows into harsh lines, highlighting his light blue eyes.
Yes, he’s handsome. That’s undeniable.
But now that he’s rocking this broody businessman appearance, it really ups his sex appeal—wait, what the hell am I doing? No, I’m not thinking about his sex appeal. Not at all.
I am not crushing. Damn it, Linus!
“I don’t think I can look at one more spreadsheet. What about you?” he asks, stretching his arms back so he grips the nape of his neck. My eyes float to his biceps that are testing the strength of his shirt fabric. Are those boulders in his arms? Has he always been this strong-looking?
Why does it matter, Charlee? It doesn’t. I don’t want to know about his workout routine or his morning routine, or what he looks like without a shirt on. Does he have tattoos? Hmm . . .
No.
Linus is getting his nipple twisted when I see him next.
Trying to look normal, I stretch out a smile that feels more like I’m squinting with my lips pressed flat together than anything. “Yeah, all the numbers are swimming together.”
He sighs. “I wanted to get this done before the weekend but looks like it’s not going to happen.”
His forearms flex as he grips the edge of the desk. Huh, look at all that wonderful sinew. Sturdy grip, wonder what else he has a sturdy grip on . . .
Swallowing hard, I fan my shirt off my chest. “I can get us some coffee, some pastries, create a sugar-rush caffeine effect and then tackle these. It’s only nine. We have plenty of oil left to burn before the weekend.”
He shakes his head. “I appreciate the effort, but you should go home.”
“I really don’t mind, Rath.” I like smelling your cologne. “It’s not like I have anyone or anything to go home to.”
He scratches the side of his jaw, studying me. “Do you like your place?”
“Oh yes, it’s very nice. Thank you.”
“Is everyone treating you kindly there?”
“Wonderfully. It’s a dream living there.”
He nods. “Good.” And then he stares out at the city lights, a lightness about him. As if since he’s mentally clocked out, he can allow himself to relax. His five o’clock shadow is heavy on his jaw and his hair falls over his forehead, darkening his features, but oddly making him seem less intimidating. “Any plans this weekend?”
He drums the table with his fingers as I’m slightly caught off guard from his question. We don’t talk too much about our personal lives, so color me shocked with his interest.
I do have plans, but I don’t dare tell him about game night because frankly, I don’t want him to change his plans, so I keep that little nugget to myself. “Going to see my grandma on Sunday. There’s a puzzle tournament, and she’s recruited me to be on her team of course. She calls me Sharp Eyes when we’re in tournament mode. It took a while to earn the title though. At first, I wasn’t quick enough but over time I’ve gotten better.”
“How often do you visit her?”
“As much as I can. She’s my best friend.” I shrug. “I don’t have many friends in the city, never had much time to make them with my job’s schedule and visiting my grandma, but that’s okay, because the few people I do have in my life matter the most to me.”
He mulls that over and then says, “If it wasn’t for my boys, I wouldn’t have anyone either. Thankfully we get each other, and even though we don’t see each other all the time, especially now with them both being in relationships, we still make time to hang out.”
“Which is so important.” I bite my bottom lip, wanting to ask a question about his personal life but a little nervous of being turned down again. Not letting fear get to me, I ask, “So Roark and Bram are both hanging off a ledge, you can only pull one of them up, who do you save?”
He looks off to the side and says, “Bram.”
“Just like that, you choose Bram?”
He nods. “I love Roark like a brother, but the bastard probably did something to fall off the edge of a cliff anyway. It was his time. Bram, he’s much more of an innocent. He needs to be pulled up.”
“Roark’s really that much of a bad boy?”
“Used to be. He’s settled now since he’s met Sutton. She levels him out.”
“You like her?”
He nods. “Yeah, she’s cool.” He directs my question at me. “What about you, if you had to pull Roark or Bram up, who would you choose?”
I chuckle. “But I don’t even know them.”
He shrugs. “Just play the game.” He’s so carefree at this moment, as if he punched in his timecard and can finally unclench his ass cheeks and relax. I like this side of him. Playful, not scowling all the time.
“Well, I guess . . . on looks alone . . . Roark. I like dark-haired guys.”
He nods and then says, “Can’t wait to tell him that.”
“Don’t you dare,” I say, my voice growing loud, my heartrate already picking up from the absolut
e embarrassment that would create. “What’s said in this office stays in this office.”
“Oh, is that so?” I have a feeling something I might have said is about to come back and bite me in the ass.
I hold strong and say, “Of course.” I draw a little circle between us. “This is a circle of trust. You and me, boss man.”
“Uh-huh, so that’s why Brute and Bulldog were asking me about the ‘nudie’ books I’m reading?”
I snort and cover my mouth at the same time.
Rath shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Chuckling, I say, “Did they really say nudie books?”
“Yes, they did. I had to correct them that in fact, I don’t read those books and also, they signed an NDA, as well as you.” I gulp. “And if that NDA is violated, I can take away everything of yours all the way down to your granny panties. Is that clear, Miss Bag of Dicks?” He levels with me, but I can’t help it, I laugh out loud.
“Oh Jesus. Please refer to me as Miss Bag of Dicks from now on. That would be a dream.”
He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking weird.”
“Gah.” I grasp my chest. “You just swore. Be still my heart; he’s not always uptight.”
“It’s after hours. I can’t be held accountable for what I do or say.” He picks up his pen from the table and tosses it at me, hitting me directly in the chest.
“Hey, what was that for?”
“For telling everybody I read those books.”
I pick up the pen and toss it back at him. Naturally, he snatches it out of midair—with his left hand—with barely a blink.
Sheesh, that was kind of hot.
“Because you do read those books.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I caught you reading it in the car on the way to my grandma’s from the airport.”
“Because I wanted to see if Lord Eric had a bush. Spoiler alert, he does.” Rath levels with me, and I swear I just caught a sparkle in his eyes. “Apparently manscaping wasn’t a thing back then.” Holy shit. My boss just mentioned manscaping. Does that mean he manscapes? Gah. Even that is sexy.
Boss Man Bridegroom Page 13
