After the Storm Page 5

  “So, who’s taking over the Wilson project?” Blaze gets down to business.

  “I am.”

  “And the Chandlers?”

  “That’d be me.”

  “What about the Andersons?”

  “I’m your man again.”

  Blaze’s eyes go wide and his posture stiffens. “You do realize you’re one person, right? What happened to distributing duties, hiring an extra man here and there? What about Willow?”

  “What about Willow? I can’t exactly have her doing stone and masonry work for the Chandlers. And I don’t think Carl Wilson would appreciate me sending her to gut, design, and install his master bathroom.” I cross my arms over my chest, ready for his rebuttal.

  “You said she was picking up the slack. Sloane told me she’s really handy. Why can’t you take her on some of the sites with you? It might be good—”

  “No, Blaze. Not happening,” I interrupt.

  “But—you promised you wouldn’t take on too much. You told me I wouldn’t be a burden.” His face turns red as his temper flares. I did make him promises, but I’ve got this covered. I won’t disappoint him, or myself. I’ve come too far in this business for that.

  “Do you have no trust in me, brother? I know what I’m doing.” I smile a toothy, obnoxious grin, trying my best to convince my friend I’m not in over my head.

  Rising to a sitting position in his bed, Blaze narrows his probing gaze. “Delegate, Noah. A good boss knows when to do that. Don’t be an arrogant ass. Willow can handle it.”

  That’s it! The mention of her name again makes me snap. “I know damn well she can handle it, Blaze. It’s me who can’t. It’s enough being around her in the office for an hour or two here and there. I can’t have her on site with me too. I can’t get closer. I don’t want to get closer.” I huff on the last part of my rant. Why does he push my buttons? And why the fuck is Willow one of those goddamn buttons?

  “And there it is, you stupid motherfucker. I knew it! You like her.” He grins.

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Do so.”

  “What are we, ten?” I shout. “Cut the shit. Just because I find her attractive doesn’t mean I like her.”

  “But you definitely want to fuck her.” His brows wiggle up and down. If he weren’t in his weakened condition, I’d punch that smirk right off his smug face.

  “End it, Blaze. I don’t want anything to do with her. I’m her boss. She’s my Office Manager. The only handy work she’ll be doing is replacing light bulbs. Leave. It. Alone.”

  But the problem isn’t Blaze leaving it alone . . . it’s me. For whatever crazy, unexpected, irrational reason, I cannot stop thinking about this woman and everything she has to offer. And even though I’ve already drummed up at least thirty naughty images of what I’d like to do to Willow, what I long for most is what she offered me in the very beginning. Her friendship.

  After a quiet, quick dinner with Blaze and Sloane, I decide to swing by the office to pick up some files I want to look over in preparation for a few upcoming jobs. As I pull the truck into my assigned spot, I notice the lights are still on inside. Weird. The lobby lights are automatic because we share the building with the dentist upstairs, but someone must have forgotten to shut off the ones in the conference room before they left.

  I jingle my keys, readying to unlock the door, but scrunch my brows together when the knob turns with ease. Weird again. My first instinct is that there was a break-in. But it’s hardly past eight, the staff usually calls it a night by six, and everything seems to be in order up at reception. Maybe whoever neglected to turn out the lights also overlooked locking up. I’ll have to talk to Willow in the morning. Make sure she’s overseeing things with a little more authority.

  Inspecting each room as I go to make sure there hasn’t been any foul play, I save the conference room for last and approach quietly. If there is some bat wielding fucker stealing my shit, I’d like to sneak up on him and have the upper hand. I grab the only weapon available to me—a shitty, half-cocked broom—and creep forward with my back against the wall, James Bond style.

  As I round the corner I ease the door open, lower my half-assed weapon and step fully into the room.

  There is no danger—well, no physical danger at least. My jaw drops and I clamp it shut, biting my lip to control the laughter dying to explode at the sight before me. Shaking her hips like Shakira’s got nothin’ on her is Willow, singing—or more like screeching—a very out of tune version of Pat Benatar’s Heartbreaker.

  Her back is toward me, but I can tell her iPod buds are buried deep in her ears and the music is at full blast. The bass resonates in the quiet office and I wonder how I didn’t hear her behind the closed door or how she hasn’t blown an eardrum. Pat’s got some set of pipes on that number. Her high-pitched shrieks could cause severe damage to Willow’s pretty little ears.

  Unnoticed, I sneak further into the room. I’m enjoying her entertaining demonstration and I’d like a few more minutes before she realizes she has an audience. The way she moves, you’d think she was putting on a show for a sold-out stadium.

  What she lacks in vocal ability, she makes up for with her sultry gyrations. Her usual tight bun has been set free so her long golden hair whips back and forth to the rhythm of those hips. At the height of the song, she lifts her arms, tangling her hands in her thick mane and tugging sections of it while her body slithers like a sexy snake. Her tight ass sways from side to side, and she shimmies to within an inch of the floor with ease, even though she’s in break-your-ankles high heels. When she returns to a standing position she spins around, wailing, “don’t you mess around with me, no, no, no.”

  Her eyes land on mine, her mouth falls agape, she yanks the buds from her ears, and flings the iPod at me. “Oh my God! You scared the fucking shit out of me, Noah! How long have you been watching?” She’s out of breath, clutching her chest right over her heart. Her fingers grip her blouse, causing it to unbutton just one button too many. When she releases her shirt to cover her mouth, probably trying to hide her embarrassment, the soft material falls free, revealing her barely-covered-by-a-thin-layer-of-lace breast.

  My mouth waters. Blood pumps to my dick, making it stiff against my jeans. I’m in awe of how fucking sexy she is. All I can think of is lunging for her and tracing my tongue along the trim of that bra and then closing my hungry mouth around her tight nipple. I ball my fists together, trying to gain back control before I completely lose my shit. It’s a dick move, but I play it off like she has no effect over me. “You put on quite a show, Miss Jones.” I gawk with a forged chuckle, pointing to her exposed boob.

  She follows the direction of my erect finger, and her mouth flies open again. She whirls around, fixing her shirt as she pivots, and releases a stream of mumbled curses. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” she cries.

  “I can ask the same of you,” I smart back. “It’s past office hours. You shouldn’t be here, even if it is very amusing.” I’m pushing it and I’m not too sure she won’t throw another—heavier—inanimate object at my head, this time.

  Unexposed and a little less flustered, Willow turns back to face me. “I must’ve lost track of time. I was swamped and didn’t want to leave anything lying around incomplete.”

  “It’s late. You could’ve left it. I don’t like the idea of you here all alone.” Anyone could have walked in on her . . . dancing. Forget about the obvious threats—I’m jealous someone else might have seen the sweet eye-candy I just witnessed.

  “Well, someone’s got to get it done, Noah.” She busies herself by piling up some loose papers. There’s an unhappiness in her voice. She’s a workaholic by choice. That’s what Sloane said, but Willow has nothing to prove to me. She’s already won me over—in the Office Manager department, that is.

  I walk over to the table and offer to help her with the paperwork. “Seriously, Willow. You’re doing a great job. I don’t want you overextending yourself.” Unless of c
ourse it’s on this table, bent over, skirt hiked up so I can claim your—

  “I was almost done,” she interrupts the heavenly, mouthwatering image.

  “With your song, or your work?” I bite my tongue to hide the smile forming on my lips.

  “Work, Noah. Amidst these four walls I’m all about work, work, work,” she sings. “But you should know that. I do believe that’s why you hired me.”

  She’s going to be a dick, then so am I. “So, should I assume your one-woman singing-dancing performance had something to do with the Wilson account?” I hold up the Wilson file, dangling it in front of her exasperated face.

  “Gimme that!” She huffs and grabs the manila folder from my hand. “Is there any possibility of erasing these events from your head—Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind style?”

  I fucking love that movie. “You know a guy?” I joke.

  “Maybe.” Her tone is less formal now.

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shake my head, sitting in one of the roll away chairs and scooting it closer to the large table. “I wouldn’t want that image erased from my mind for all the tea in China.”

  “What about all the beer at Sullivan’s?”

  Was that a bribe? An invitation? Is she asking me out? Don’t go there, Noah. Get back on track. Just because she has your dick jumping at attention from her striptease earlier, don’t let it do the thinking. “Nope, not even all the sunshine in Bora Bora.” I bring my index finger up to my temple, tapping it against my skull. “I’m keeping that one locked up right in here for safe keeping.”

  “And what do you plan on doing with it?” She saunters—yes, saunters—slowly, intentionally, methodically toward me. Her movements are feline-like—elegant and duplicitous at the same time. When she’s within an inch of my seat, she pulls the hem of her skirt just above her bare knee and sits atop the table, staring down at me.

  I lean back in my chair, begging my eyes to focus on her face and not her silky, smooth legs. The resolve this takes is almost crippling. I bet she can see the struggle on my face plain as day. I might actually bust a nut trying to keep my hands in my lap. “What would you like me to do with it?”

  This is dangerous. This is not cool. This is a leap across that very thin line I’ve been trying so hard to stay miles away from. But God help me, I’m a man and she’s a gorgeous, sexy woman who’s always around, always just within reach, always on my mind. And we’re all alone in this dark, deserted office. And she’s wearing that ass hugging skirt. And she flashed her tit for me which alone practically made me shoot a load in my pants.

  Jesus Christ, I want this woman and I want to bury myself inside her. Now. She has to smell my need for her dripping off me. She has to feel the same pent up urge to fuck these stupid rules we’ve made and submit. She has to want all these things because she’s leaning down so that her tongue-worthy cleavage is within licking distance. And just as I’m about to dig my fingers into her hair and claim her mouth, she drops her voice to a husky whisper and says, “I’d like for you to forget about it, pretend none of this ever happened, and then go on with business like usual. Sound good, boss?” She accentuates the boss, pulling her shoulders back and returning to a well-postured sitting position.

  I’m left with a lump in my throat—all that saliva build up—and a painful swelling in my pants. Serves me right for playing the game with someone who seems to have written the rules herself.

  With the room a haze of awkwardness and stifled hormones, Willow goes back to filing paperwork and I try to break the ice. “Do you always work this late?” I should know, but unfortunately I’ve been trying not to pay unnecessary attention to Willow and her comings and goings. But it’s small talk at its finest, and small talk is one of the things on my approved list.

  “Not always, but yes, most of the time.” She shrugs. “It keeps me busy, and other than hitting spin class a few times a week, I don’t have anything to rush home to.”

  Don’t ask, Noah. Ah, fuck it . . . I can’t leave her hanging like that. “Really? No roommate, hobbies, boyfriend?” I keep my attention focused off of her as if I’m not really interested in her answer and just being polite. But damn me, I am interested—in that last part especially. I really hate myself.

  Pursing her lips, her long lashes brush her flushed cheeks as she flutters her eyes open and closed. “Nope. None of the above.”

  I should leave it at that, but we’re still moving around the office cleaning up, and changing the subject seems too obvious. “I didn’t take you for a loner. You and Sloane seem close, and you’re too young to work crazy hours and hole yourself up all alone . . . like me.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She perks up. “Well, then, what’s your story? You’re not that much older than me. Why are you a loner? And don’t say you’re not, because I’ve seen your schedule and I know you make zero room for fun.” She places her hands on her hips, demanding an explanation. One I’m not really willing to give. This is part of being friends, but the less she knows the better.

  However, I find the confession spilling from my lips before I can stop it. “Ah, let’s just say I’ve been burned. It did a number on me until I found something that I was passionate about again—my work. What I’ve built here makes me happy, complete, satisfied.” It’s not a lie, more of a half-truth, because I wonder what it would be like to be happy with all aspects of my life, not just my career. I have great friends, a wonderful family, a booming business, and only one thing is missing. One thing I haven’t let myself want in a very long time.

  Willow’s eyes brighten from my admission. It’s like I’ve given her a gift by opening up and sharing something about myself. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s why she says what comes next. “Well, I’ve been burned too. I’m divorced.”

  My eyes go wide. I’m shocked. She’s twenty five. How long could she have been married? How old was she when she became someone’s wife? Wow, this woman is full of surprises. And now I’m dying to unravel more of her mystery. “I’m sorry.” It’s all I can offer without rambling off a thousand questions like a washwoman.

  “Don’t be. I’m better off without him.” Her purplish gaze orbits to some far off place, insinuating she has doubts about that last remark.

  A friend would encourage her in this situation. Maybe I should too? How hard could it be? “Listen, I don’t know the whole story, but any guy who’d let you go has to have something wrong with him. Unless . . . are you some kind of possessive, nagging, ball and chain, Willow Jones?”

  Her body stiffens even though her plush lips wear a polite smile. “Don’t dwell on the past. Life goes on with or without you. So . . . let’s talk about something else.”

  “Confucius?” I love her life affirming quote.

  “Nope. Pinterest.”

  We laugh, but I sense how uncomfortable she is by the way her pace has hurried in tidying things up. I’ve hit a sore spot and I know all too well what it feels like to not want to expand on something painful. But we’re not done here. We’ve wandered into the reception area and locked up the conference room. I can probably call it a night and let her finish up, but what kind of guy would I be if I didn’t stick around to make sure she got out of here okay?

  I move the topic to something harmless to keep the friendly conversation alive. “So, Pat Benatar? Aren’t you a little young for 80’s rock?”

  Snorting back her annoyance, she rolls her eyes. “Um, no one’s too young for the classics, Noah. If I showed you some of my favorite playlists, you’d probably be shocked.”

  “Really? Do tell.”

  “I like it all from the Beatles, to Diana Ross and the Supremes, to The Killers, and Bruno Mars. What about you? What’re you into?”

  I can’t tell if she’s truly curious or just being polite, but I go with it. “I used to be a 90’s grunge junkie, but after I moved out west, I found myself going over to the dark side—country,” I admit, skeptical. I never know how someone’s going to receive my enjoyment of a whiny, crooning c
owboy. Some people would rather listen to screaming cats than country music. I used to be one of those people. Now, I find it soothing. Therapeutic. Numbing.

  “Really? I didn’t see that one coming.” Her lips turn up in a surprised smirk, her eyes sparkling with wonder.

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Nope. Not at all. To each his own.” She’s back to short and sweet. Why is it so hard to read her? There’s nothing to read—you told her to stay away. She’s obeying her boss’s orders.

  “You a fan?” I ask. I want to continue the conversation so we don’t have to finish up in silence.

  “I told you I like it all. Country included. In fact, I’m a big Lady A fan. And I love Blake Shelton. He’s a total hottie.” Hmm, so she does like older men.

  “So is his wife.”

  “Agreed. I kinda have a girl-crush on her.”

  “Really?” I laugh, totally interested. This conversation can go to so many places that it shouldn’t. But we’re done here—just in the nick of time. I take that as a cue to keep my mouth shut about all the thoughts reeling in my head about Willow, Miranda Lambert, and any other pretty blondes she might have a hankering for.

  “Well, looks like we can call it quits for the day. Thanks for helping me out.” Dismissing me, Willow locks the filing cabinet with a large set of keys that she dumps into her oversized purse.

  We stand in uncomfortable stillness for a split second before something comes over me and I blurt out, “Would you like to grab something to eat? I mean, I already ate before I came here with Blaze and Sloane, but—have you eaten yet? I hope you didn’t work through dinner.” Shit, I should have thought this through. Was it rude that we didn’t think to invite her while we were laughing over burgers and fries at Blaze’s?

  “Thanks for the offer, boss, but I had a late lunch and I’m actually exhausted.” She hooks her bag on her arm, and then tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

  Her eyes meet mine and I’m suddenly regretful of the precedent I’ve set for the two of us. I don’t want to only be her boss. I don’t necessarily want anything romantic. No, scratch that—I’m definitely not doing the romance thing with Willow. Her past seems as complicated as mine, and she’s too young and way too valuable to me here. I wouldn’t want to screw that up—because it’s inevitable that I will. But would it be terrible if we were friends? I like her. She makes me smile. I think once we put everything behind us—everything, as in me being a dick to a nice girl for no reason other than to feel secure in my manhood—we can actually have something good going. Like Blaze and Sloane. Two perfect strangers who met in a bar without any intention of hooking up, who became instant buddies who rely on each other. I wouldn’t mind that. I wonder if she would.