“Actually, it sort of is.” Paul folded his arms as he stared down his long, aquiline nose at me. “Chase Byers, one of the guys who works the front desk, wants to transfer to training, so I need to evaluate his performance and make sure he’s earned the transfer.” He paused, features sharp. “I’m pretty sure Brock mentioned this to you?”

I opened my mouth as I glanced into the room. I was pretty sure he hadn’t.

“Jillian,” he said, touching my arm. “Did you hear me?”

My gaze swung back to his. Okay. There was no way he’d just spoken or I was totally losing my mind. “What?”

“Do you have his report?” he asked.

Hating that I could feel my cheeks burning, I looked down at the reports I held and thumbed through them until I found Chase’s weekly activity sheet. I pulled it out and handed it to him. “Sorry. Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Paul said, but sure as hell didn’t sound like he meant it.

“No problem,” I responded, irritated more with myself than him. I was his manager, and yet I was the one apologizing? What the hell?

Paul didn’t respond as he walked into the meeting. I didn’t get this guy and the problem he had with me. Frowning, I looked up and met Brock’s stare. His brows were raised. He was waiting for me and I was just out here standing around, staring at the floor.

Lovely.

Sighing, I shoved Paul’s attitude aside and walked into the conference room, closing the door behind me as I told myself that next time I was going to put Paul in his place.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon, close to three, my office phone dinged, signaling an internal call. I glanced over and saw the GM button was lit up. A smile tugged at my lips as I picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Need to see you,” Brock said through the phone and then promptly hung up.

I shivered at the sharp bite of desire. Telling myself to chill and that his need to see me surely was work-related, I locked my computer as I toed my heels back on and then rose. Standing, I smoothed the skirt of the beige dress I’d found in the back of my closet.

I really needed to go shopping for clothes.

Brock had stayed late at the Academy last night, so I hadn’t seen him after I left work and before I returned this morning. He had texted last night, telling—not asking—me to have nice dreams of him.

It was so corny that I’d laughed out loud when I saw it.