by Elise Faber
Becca saw red.
She’d always thought it just an expression, but in this moment, after Devon’s confession and with Mick painting a freaking curse word on her car, she’d had enough.
She took a step forward.
A hand on her shoulder stalled her. “What the fuck are you doing?” Devon snapped.
“Don’t curse at me.” She struggled, trying to free herself, but only managed to knock her purse down her arm and nearly drop the files. “Let me go. I’m—”
“Going to stay right here while I take care of it.”
He released her and crossed to her car, moving like lightning while somehow managing to look casual and unhurried at the same time.
Becca stared stupidly after Devon for a few seconds before managing to pull her head out of her you-know-what.
She stormed over, heels clicking on the pavement. Mick had hated her wearing them, hated the way they made her tower over him.
And so she’d given in. She’d worn flats, because like a little pansy, she hadn’t wanted to fight with him over something “stupid.”
But Becca loved heels.
The rapid click-click had always made her smile, a secret internal grin that made her feel powerful, her personal I’m-a-woman-hear-me-roar moment. Today, however, her heels had the opposite effect.
They whipped two sets of male eyes in her direction, one petrified and one furious as all get out.
Devon leaned toward Mick and said something she couldn’t hear. It made her ex’s face pale before he dropped the paint can and sprinted away.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked — okay, yelled — when Mick had gone.
“Me?” Devon asked — okay, yelled — back. “You’re the one who thought it might be a good idea to confront the man who’s been harassing you. Don’t you have a restraining order? Why would you think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t have a restraining order because the judge didn’t grant it.” Turned out, Mick’s father was a golf buddy of the one who’d presided over her case.
“That’s bullshit,” Devon said, snatching his phone from his pocket.
“Stop cursing at me,” she told him again.
“I’m not cursing at you. I’m cursing at the bastard who thinks it’s okay to tag your car, send you threatening notes, and come to your apartment in the middle of the night.”
“How do you know he sent me notes?” she asked. She hadn’t mentioned that to anyone. “And showed up at my apartment?”
If she’d ever wanted to witness a man having an oh-you-know-what moment, this was it. His eyes widened, a slight rosy tint appeared at the tops of his cheeks, and he actually ground the toe of one shoe into the pavement. “I — uh—”
His phone rang, and the relief on his face was so obvious that Becca was tempted to laugh.
Somehow, despite her car being defaced and her boss telling her she was a nuisance before interjecting himself into her life in a very nuisance-like way himself, she was amused.
Because Devon like this — chivalrous, concerned, contrite — was almost cute.
And that was a completely different side of him than the powerful, take-no-prisoners executive she normally saw.
“Pascal, good. I need you in the parking lot immediately,” he said and hung up. Avoiding her eyes, he moved around the car taking pictures, bending to study the undercarriage, the tailpipe.
“Devon,” she said.
He ignored her.
“Devon.”
His sigh was audible even though she stood on the other side of her car. “Let me do this first, okay?” He took one more picture, walked around the hood of her Toyota, then got right into her face.
In her three-inch heels, he was still taller, but not by much, and he didn’t have to crouch to meet her eyes.
“How?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Except, it did. Especially if what she was seeing was real.
Concern. Actual genuine concern. And beneath that?
Heat.
She sucked in a breath, and his eyes flicked to her mouth. They tingled, ached, needed.
Kiss her.
For real this time, not in the fantasy-dream-world of her mind.
One hand came up, cupped her cheek. He leaned in.
Their mouths were so close she could feel his breath on her lips, could smell the cinnamon on his tongue.
Devon moved a hairsbreadth closer and—
“Sir.”
CHAPTER FIVE
BECCA GASPED AND straightened, tugging her purse up to her shoulder. Devon held on to her cheek for a long moment, calloused fingers brushing the skin behind her ear before he dropped his hand and stepped away to greet Pascal.
Stupid.
As in she was for falling for Devon’s magical man-scent and his hard body and — her heart gave a little tumble — his sweet side.
The man made her stupid… which was exactly why she needed to keep her distance, magical man-scent or not.
She unlocked her car, tucked her keys back into her purse, then reached into the glovebox. After grabbing a handful of napkins, she went to work at wiping off the paint.
Or attempting to anyway.
The black letters smeared and blurred but didn’t come off. Though at least it looked less like the c-word and more like a giant ebony blob engulfing one entire side of her car.
“Ms. Stealing?”
She smiled and turned to Pascal. The bodyguard was standing behind her, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Even in her few months at the firm, she’d come to like him. He was a strange combination of awkward and capable, endearing and tough. She’d seen him take down an overzealous fan before he’d reached Devon’s side and just as easily comfort a child who’d fallen and hurt her knee.
“Hi, Pascal.”
“Your keys, please.”
Becca blinked. “For what?”
“He’s going to take your car to the shop, get that paint off,” Devon said from right behind her.
She hadn’t heard him move, but she’d certainly felt him — or her body had.
Raised hairs on her nape, heat between her thighs, a tilt-a-whirl for a heart. She was falling apart… or just falling for Devon.
“I can take care—”
Devon came close and snatched her purse from her arm. He’d reached inside and plucked her keys free before she’d done more than utter a sound of protest.
“Come on,” he said, tossing them to Pascal and picking up the files from where she’d set them on the driver’s seat. “We’re going to lunch.”
He’d rattled her, totally discombobulated her senses. That was the reason she didn’t protest.
Not because he’d snagged her hand after he’d slung her purse over his shoulder — which, for God-knew-why, didn’t look ridiculous.
Definitely not because his warm fingers stroking along hers felt incredible.
No. Definitely not.
It wasn’t until she was in the passenger seat of his BMW and really digging the butt warmer that she found her voice.
“What are you playing at, Devon?”
He’d been shrugging out of his suit jacket and froze at her question.
Chocolate irises flashed to hers, held. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared as he released a long slow breath.
“I’m not playing at anything.” He tossed the jacket on the back seat.
She toyed with the seatbelt strap, running her fingers over the nylon, up and down, up and down.
Devon’s gaze went hot.
Becca froze, then pressed on. “You want me gone.”
He pushed the button to start the car, and it rumbled to life. “Yes.”
Her gut twisted.
“But not for the reason you think.”
Something like hope bubbled up in her belly, only it couldn’t be. Even putting the matter of Devon being her boss aside, he was still way out of her league in everything else.
“Why then?”
Dead silence as Devon drove them down the street. Silence as they got on the freeway, silence as they pulled into the parking lot of an Italian restaurant — her favorite, which she was starting to think wasn’t a coincidence.
Silence until Devon turned off the car.
“You’re fired.”
She gasped, opened her mouth—
He kissed her.
CHAPTER SIX
THIS WAS SO fucking stupid. Like beyond stupid. Like making-a-pass-up-the-middle-and-getting-it-picked-off stupid.
But damn did it feel good.
Becca had the most incredible mouth, perfect and pink with a pouty bottom lip and a precise cupid’s bow at the top.
Devon knew it was called a cupid’s bow because he’d fantasized about her enough to Google it.
Pathetic.
But there was nothing pathetic about finally being able to kiss Becca. Her mouth had been stiff in surprise, but the moment he gentled his lips, she softened and let him kiss the hell out of that pout.
She let him in.
Just like he knew she would.
Becca was all softness, sweet kind eyes, and empathy to her core.
But she was also heat. And temper.
Which was a side of her he hadn’t seen before.
A side that threatened to ruin everything.
Which is why he needed to stop this. He was going to ruin everything for her.
Becca needed this job, and he needed to keep it in his pants.
Devon pulled back. It took every bit of his tenacity to drop his hands to her shoulders and set her away from him, every bit of strength to not kiss her again when he saw the flush on her cheeks… her reddened lips… the glaze of pleasure in her eyes…
He wanted her so fucking bad.
And he was her boss.
No. Glutton for fucking punishment, that’s what he was.
He got out of the car, let the cool air soak into his overheated body, and thought about stats and contracts and granny panties until his erection subsided.
Only then did he grab his coat from the back seat then walk around the car to open Becca’s door.
She was staring straight ahead, trembling fingers pressed to her mouth.
“You’re hired.”
Her stare flashed up to his, that hint of her temper sparking to life all over again. He was rock hard in an instant. This woman killed him.
“You can’t just—”
He had no resistance, not when it came to Becca.
Devon slanted his mouth to hers. “I can and I will,” he said when he managed to break away, heart pounding, body aching.
He reached across her and unbuckled her seat belt, barely resisting the urge to nuzzle against her breasts, which just so happened to be a hairsbreadth away from his nose.
The shirts she wore, buttons from top to bottom, always made him want to tear the two halves apart then bury his face into the exposed skin beneath… or better yet, to unbutton it, one by one, kissing, licking, worshiping every inch below.
Which was so not helping his problem.
“Let’s eat,” he said. “I promise I won’t kiss you again.”
It was a promise he didn’t want to make — fuck no — but one he felt he had to. Becca was his employee, and their relationship held an inherent uneven distribution of power.
Not only would the media have a heyday with the whole forbidden love, secretary-boss scenario, his HR lead would have his head.
Devon followed the rules. It was one of the reasons his business was so successful. He didn’t compromise, didn’t flake out on commitments, and he certainly didn’t screw over his clients or employees.
Which, of course, meant that he would be screwed in this case… and not in the way he was desperate for.
“What if I want you to?”
The air froze in his lungs, locking him down tight, making everything hard. He studied Becca, saw the heat in her expression, the flush on her cheeks.
She was in as bad a way as he was.
Curse words blared through his mind but not his mouth because… because he knew she didn’t like it. Instead, Devon snagged her hand and helped her from the car, closing her door behind her.
“Wait,” she told him when he started tugging her in the direction of the restaurant.
She pulled her hand free, went back to the car, and bent over — sweet Christ — to retrieve her files from the back seat.
A strangled noise escaped his throat; he couldn’t help it.
Becca turned, held up the stack of manila, and smiled. “Didn’t want to risk leaving these in the car.”
He nodded, his voice gone somewhere in the direction of his sanity.
What he really wanted to do was shove her back into the car, drive them back to his house, and park in the garage.
Then show her just how much he appreciated the way her ass looked in that tight skirt.
“Devon?”
He blinked, realized she was staring at him with concern. Which tended to happen when people zoned out in the middle of parking lots while mentally acting out their fantasies about curvy, blonde bombshells who seemed intent on torturing them.
“Food. Inside,” he said, pushing the other stuff away and focusing on Becca. Pascal would have dropped her car off at the repair shop by now. Then his bodyguard was supposed to get her apartment fitted up with the best security system Devon’s money could buy.
And Devon’s money could buy a lot.
“Okay, caveman,” she said and strode in front of him, shaking her head and muttering something about men and idiots.
No argument there, he thought, especially when he caught his eyes drifting down again.
He forced them heavenward and prayed he’d have the strength to resist.
And then he trailed after her, not holding his breath that his prayers would make one lick of difference.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AWKWARD. THINGS WERE straight-up-vodka-without-a-twist awkward.
Devon stared at her over their respective ice waters. He. Just. Stared.
Finally, Becca couldn’t take it any longer. “For God’s sake, what?” she exclaimed.
He blinked, melted chocolate shuttered for an extended moment before he sighed. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Oh geez.
“Well, you did.” And really freaking well, if she could say so. But since she couldn’t without exasperating the buyer’s remorse Devon clearly had going on—
“What’s done is done,” she said. “So let’s just move on and forget about it.”
“Forget about it?” His brows were sky high, his jaw agape.
The man was actually surprised that a woman might want to forget his kisses.
Well, that was what happened when he went through life as a walking, talking example of sex-on-a-stick.
And it wasn’t so much that she wanted to pretend the kisses hadn’t happened — hand’s down the best ones of her life — as it was that she needed the money from the job.
Her mom was on the waiting list for an expensive program at her rehabilitation center, and they collected their fee upfront. Which was why she’d been scrimping and saving forever to get her in and couldn’t afford to lose a month’s salary.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re going to forget about it. We can eat pasta. I work on these files, and you’ll answer the six hundred or so emails floating about your inbox. Then we’ll drive back to the office, and you’ll forget all about The Kiss as you order me around until six. After which I’ll sneak out and drive to McKay’s.”
He’d been with her until she’d blown it and mentioned McKay’s. His frown had smoothed out, one side of his mouth had curled up. Then she’d gone and ruined it all.
“What’s at McKay’s?”
The waiter came by before she was forced to answer. She ordered the puttanesca — if her words didn’t put him off then hopefully the anchovies and garlic would — and Devon asked for a salad.
>
Seriously. A salad.
But she didn’t get to go on the offensive about the salad, not when he was fixing her in place with The Stare. The one that made the most difficult and stubborn of clients sit quiescently and do exactly as Devon wanted.
She didn’t have a chance in hell of resisting him, not when he looked at her like that.
“I work there.”
He frowned, two slashes of black brows pulling down and in. “You work for me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Temporarily.”
“You’ve worked for me for five months.”
Becca had been lucky enough to get a six-month contract when the norm for maternity leave was only three, but apparently, Clarice had experienced some pretty serious complications. Becca had actually been hired right after Clarice’s doctor had ordered bedrest for the final three months of her pregnancy.
“I’ve only got one more before I’m off contract.”
Devon stilled.
She smiled. “Yeah, exactly. I have a life outside of Prestige. I have to, because in a few more weeks I’m gone. Maybe I would get an offer for another temp position, but there’s no guarantee.”
“And so you work at a bar.”
She traced her finger through the condensation on the outside of her water glass. “It’s got a restaurant too.”
“Which isn’t open at night,” he pointed out.
“And how do you know that?”
“How do I know about one of the rowdiest bars in this whole town? Because I was a professional athlete. We have the ability to discover the single place in every city where it’s the easiest to get into trouble. And trust me, Bex, McKay’s is it.”
Since she had, in fact, seen her fair share of trouble at the restaurant — okay, bar — Becca didn’t argue. She also didn’t point out the fact that he’d called her Bex.
It seemed both too familiar and comfortably intimate all at once.
And she liked it.
“I need the money.”
“For what? Drugs?”
Becca was so startled she knocked her water glass over. “You’re being ridiculous.”
