Harlow lifted her chin. It would have been really nice if the universe could have made his face less gorgeous. His Italian-American heritage was stamped all over his features. He was a little too rugged to be strictly handsome. A strong jaw, clean-shaven in the morning, was now covered in a dark, five-o’clock shadow. His eyes were a deep, cobalt blue, and his ink-black hair was just a little longer than what you’d expect from a successful businessman.

That sharp gaze roamed over her, then flicked back to her face.

“A little overdressed for the office, Ms. Carlson.”

Ignoring the deep drawl, Harlow strode in and dumped her coat and clutch on one of the guest chairs in front of Easton’s lake-sized desk of polished teak.

“I’m not supposed to be in the office,” she said sharply. “I’m supposed to be finishing my date, but I’m employed by a workaholic.”

Dark brows drew down. “Date?”

“Yes, you know, man, woman, dinner.”

His gaze dropped to her legs. “And a little more than dinner if that dress is anything to go by.”

“There is nothing wrong with my dress.” She strode around his desk. She wasn’t letting him intimidate her. “And my date is none of your business.” She started scanning the desk for the missing files. “I left those reports right on your desk. What have you done with them?”

He looked up at her. She caught a faint whiff of his cologne—crisp and sexy, with a spicy undertone.

Dammit. Focus, Harlow.

There were no files on his desk, just one hot boss leaning against it.

“Ms. Carlson.” His fingers wrapped around her arm.

The heat of his touch ran through her. She sucked in a breath.

“Anyone who works for me is very much my business.”

* * *

Easton watched Harlow’s blue-green eyes fire.

She didn’t pull back. No, one thing he’d learned about Harlow Carlson over the last few weeks since she’d become the bane of his existence, was that she rarely did the expected.

She leaned closer, rifling through the papers on his desk.

“You might think you’re in charge of the world, Mr. Norcross, but you aren’t.”

Fuck. Easton finally confronted the fact that anytime this woman called him Mr. Norcross, he got hard.

She was dressed like a man’s fantasy. Her gorgeous curves were packed into a fire-engine-red dress. Her silky, blonde hair was piled up on her head; strands of it escaped to tease the slender line of her neck.

“I’m in charge of my little piece of the world,” he drawled.

She cocked her hip. “You aren’t in charge of people.”

He sat back in his chair, not examining why trading barbs with Harlow woke something up inside him.

Since he’d left the Army, Easton had thrown himself into business. It had given him purpose.

And kept the dark memories at bay.