“Shit happens,” Crosley says. “And Veronica has way more on her plate than the rest of us. You need backup in here, pick up the fucking phone. If I’m not in the shop, I’m upstairs and I’ll cover.”
I give a casual shrug. He’s right, of course. When we bought this place, we debated renting out the run-down apartments that sit over the office and garages. We decided we’d be better off living upstairs ourselves—we’d renovate them as our budgets and schedules allowed and eventually charge what the bay-view apartments are really worth. It also meant we’d be right on site when extra hands were needed and could run upstairs to clean up between excursions. I know all this, and yet when it comes to Veronica, I lose my goddamned mind.
I was a dick this morning, and I owe her an apology. I’ll swallow my pride and make sure she knows I’m not planning to fire her. Maybe I’ll even ask if we need to adjust her schedule. She’s a single mom juggling a lot. I’m a compassionate guy under normal circumstances, but there’s nothing normal about how I feel when Veronica is around. “I’ll talk to her and fix it.”
“Good,” Cros says. “Coming out with us tonight?”
I arch a brow. “We’re going out?”
“Jackson Brews after work. What do you say?”
“Sure.” My first year sober, I avoided bars like the plague, but Jackson Brews is low-key, and their new selection of nonalcoholic beer makes going feel like a treat instead of a test. Especially when I get to drink it while kicking Crosley’s ass at pool. “Rematch?”
“We’ll see,” he says, grinning and backing out the door. “I’m heading upstairs. I need a shower, but I’ll meet you there.”
“Good deal,” I say, turning my attention to my computer. Only when Crosley’s gone do I realize I forgot to tell him to close the door.
My gaze drifts to the reception area again. To Veronica. She’s wearing a little white sundress that seems to be one of her favorites. It has skinny straps that slip off her shoulders all day, and the hem barely reaches mid-thigh. And if she forgets a sweater, which she usually does because she’s a hot fucking mess most of the time, her nipples get hard in the cool air conditioning, and the dress is too thin to disguise it. That fucking dress haunts my dreams.
She leans on the counter, helping a customer scroll the iPad we keep loaded with details and pictures of our services, and I have the perfect view of the curve of her ass and the exposed backs of her thighs. If she leans over just a little more, I might get a glimpse of her panties. Are they the same silky fabric as the ones I stroked between her thighs last summer? The ones I took home and still haven’t returned.
I’m dying to know, and I fucking hate myself for it. I don’t want to be that creepy coworker who puts his eyes where they’re not welcome. I don’t like to think of myself as her boss. That just makes this whole situation even more fucked up.
The guy at the counter says something I can’t quite make out, and Veronica’s full laugh fills my ears. His gaze drifts down to her cleavage, and I want to kick the asshole right out the door. Even if the impulse makes me a fucking hypocrite. Maybe because it makes me a hypocrite.
I force my attention back to my computer, and within a few minutes, I’m lost in preparing new contracts and mapping out future expeditions.
The day gets away from me again, and it’s not until I hear Veronica closing up that I realize how late it’s gotten. We have a private party going out with Wes tonight, and I needed their signed contract yesterday. Veronica promised she’d get their signatures today.
“Do you have the Hammish contract?” I push out of my desk and stride toward reception. I should’ve asked earlier, but, truth be told, I was avoiding her.
Veronica locks the front door and turns the sign instructing people to go online for reservations or try back tomorrow. All the while, she doesn’t spare me a fucking glance. Why should she? I’m just her boss. Just the asshole with the temper who didn’t bother asking if she was okay before letting loose on her this morning.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I need that paperwork. I soften my tone. “Veronica? The contract?”
She sighs. “I put it in the shared drive like you told me to.”
“I didn’t see it there.”
“Are you sure?” Her full lips pull into a grimace, and the urge to kiss it away fuels my shitty mood.
“I just refreshed.” I sound like a dick, but we shouldn’t be working together. She makes me fucking crazy. I focus my glower on the wall behind her head while she circles back to the computer to check. I’m trying really hard not to use the moment to get another look at her thighs.
Most days I can’t decide if I want to fight with her or fuck her, and, yeah, even if she didn’t hate my guts, it’s not a good look. I’m not that guy anymore.
Just the fact that I want her pisses me off, and I grit my teeth as she leans over the desk to get a closer look at the monitor.
“Shit,” she whispers, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think that was embarrassment in her tone. “Here. I’ll move it now.” She clicks her mouse a few times before closing the laptop and straightening, no trace of chagrin on her face as she meets my eyes and lifts her chin. “It’s there now.”
“You want a parade? I asked for it by lunch.” I pointedly shift my gaze to the clock. Five p.m.
Her cheeks flush a pretty pink. “Don’t be a dick,” she snaps.
“I hired you as a favor,” I say, all plans of apologizing out the window. “You’re here to make my life easier, not harder.”
Her jaw drops, and I hear the words I just said. I’m an asshole. I’m a horny asshole who apparently can’t handle keeping his hands off Veronica Maddox without turning into a raging dick. But hell, this would be easier if I didn’t know how good it feels to be inside her. It would be easier if I didn’t remember the sounds she made when I scraped my teeth over the swell of her breast.
Creep.
“What exactly do you think I do out here for eight hours a day?” she snaps. “My nails?”
Of course I know she works hard. That she even has to ask proves that I’m screwing this up. I grimace. “I didn’t—”
“Never mind.” Veronica steps away and doesn’t spare me a glance as she opens my office door. “I have to go pick up my son.” She grabs her purse off her desk and shoves out through the front door. And I watch the swish of her hips with every step.
Veronica
Sometimes life as a single mom feels like a series of ticking clocks. I wake up in the morning and I’m on the clock. Shower, dress, wake Jacks—if he somehow isn’t awake yet—to change and feed him, and hustle out the door. Don’t forget our lunches or Jacks’ blankie. I drop him off with Star at Ooh La La! because preschool doesn’t officially start until nine, and she can walk him across the street on her break. Once I leave Jacks with my best friend, I rush to get to work on time. There, I work against the clock again, trying to reply to as many messages from our email and social media accounts as possible before turning on the phones and opening the doors for the day. At lunch, I’m on the clock again—rushing to the preschool to pick up Jacks and take him to daycare for the afternoon. Then I get back to work to finish my day. If I leave on time, I have an hour between when I leave work and when I pick up Jacks. Seems like plenty of time, until that hour becomes your only opportunity to take care of errands you need to do alone. Christmas and birthday shopping are a must without Jacks, but half the time, I’m squeezing in a run to the store for this or that.