He walks over and stands behind me. “I’m a bit of a QuickBooks savant. Do you want some help?”

Usually my pride won’t let me ask for help. But Dax didn’t need to offer, and the amount of time I’ve spent hovered over these computer screens trying to figure it out is enough for me to comply and agree to his help.

I stand up from the chair, and he sits down. He looks at me expectantly and then taps his knee. “You’re gonna want to get comfortable, babe.”

I blush. Fucking blush and flatten my skirt out and sit on his knee. His large hand wraps around my waist, holding on to my hip while he uses the other hand to navigate the mouse.

He scrolls through, opening up receipts, not speaking to me but focusing on the numbers. Dax squints and groans. He pulls out a pair of black-rimmed glasses and puts them on. How in the fuck does that make him even hotter? He’s like every girl’s sexy older hot professor fantasy. I wiggle on his lap a little bit, and his hold gets tighter on my hip.

“Your cash drawer is what’s short. But only every three days.”

“What?”

He points to the screen, his fingertips digging into my flesh, making me shift a little deeper into his lap. His jeans brushing against the bare skin of the back of my thighs.

“it’s small amounts. Like fifteen to twenty dollars. Not enough to notice regularly. It also looks like your produce amounts don’t actually match what’s being delivered. Looks like it hasn’t been going on for very long. Maybe a few weeks.”

“So one of my employees is stealing from me?” Just add one more person to the list of everyone who hates Blair.

I can’t help it when my back sags against Dax’s chest. I’m exhausted, you can only get beaten down so many times before you break. It feels like it’s me against the world right now. Well and Stevie, who is so scared of our coven she’s afraid to leave the house.

“What color gray is it?” I think back to our last conversation and how we rated our day on the scale of white to black. It makes me smirk a little over the fact he remembered.

“Honestly, pitch fucking black,” I say. Vulnerability isn’t something I’m used to, but he calms me.

“Can I make it better?” he whispers in my ear. I realize now that both of his hands are on me. One fiddling with the end of my skirt while the other is planted on top of my thigh. His tan skin against my pale tattooed thighs.

“How would you make it better?” I ask, trying to not sound like I’m panting for it.

His face is so close to mine, and his voice is so gravelly and deep when he responds. “I’d fuck your pussy with my fingers so hard your cum would soak through to my jeans.”