“Right. See, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I have a few notes here and there from Bethany, but beyond that… I don’t know what to do exactly. I mean, I’ve been answering the phone, but without your schedule or a general knowledge of your daily routine, I have no idea what to tell clients when they do call, so I’ve just been taking messages.”

Considering she’d barely been able to get a word out a moment earlier, I was almost blown over by the sheer number of syllables she’d managed to string together with hardly a breath in between.

“You’ve taken messages?” When I looked down at the stack of pink notes in her hand, my stomach went sour.

“Yes, quite a lot actually,” she said, holding up the pile.

There had to be thirty at least. Possibly fifty.

“Jesus. Get in here,” I said, stepping aside.

Her eyes widened at my request, as if she wasn’t sure I’d actually meant it.

“What are you waiting for?” I snapped.

That seemed to stir some action in her. She scooted past me, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her dress clung to her curves. It wasn’t the same as the tight green number she’d worn out to the club, but now that I took a good, hard look, I’d recognize those hips and ass anywhere. She was doing a decent job of covering them with that horrible-looking sweater dress, but underneath it, I could still picture every luscious inch.

“Sir?”

“Right,” I said, shaking my head, as I shut the door.

She had already positioned herself in one of the heavy leather chairs in front of my desk while I had been busy having an inappropriate fantasy about her in my head.

That didn’t make me any more of a jackass, did it?

“Okay, let’s get a few things straight,” I said, taking a seat in front of her.

She nodded enthusiastically. It wasn’t in a bobblehead Barbie sort of way, but it was the kind of nod that would let you know someone was tuned in, and focused, on you.

“Right, so I like as little interruptions as possible. None, if it can be achieved. Think of this as my private sanctuary. I don’t hold meetings here. I don’t like it when people ‘swing by to chat’,’” I said, holding my fingers up to emphasize the phrase. “And I especially hate knocking.”

Her cheeks instantly reddened.

“I’m so sorry,” she started gushing.

I held up my hand to stop her.

“Now, you know. Moving on,” I continued.

She pressed her lips together in what I assumed was to halt whatever additional apologies might come, but instead, all it resulted in was my eyes darting straight to her pouty pink mouth.

What would those lips would feel like wrapped around—.