Page 33 of Nathan

I drag my gaze away from Nate to glance back at my boss, tensing for an explosion when I catch the hate in his eyes.

“I can’t see you today, Nate. I’m busy, and we don’t have an appointment.”

Nate steps into the room, right next to me. The sleeve of his shirt brushes my bare arm, and a rash of goosebumps appears from pleasure rather than a chill. His fingers touch mine so lightly, I may have imagined it.

“I’m not here to see you. I’ve come to take your assistant to lunch.”

“You have?” The joy mingled with surprise in my voice lifts my tone. Just as quickly, I quash the spike of hope. It’s probably so he can let me down gently… tell me he made a mistake about New York, and put an end to our relationship.

Relationship? Pah. A weekend of hot fucking, more like.

He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and looks down at me. I swear, I have a tiny orgasm just from the sight of his come-to-bed eyes.

“Yep.”

“She’s too busy,” Bernard interjects, even though his eyes narrow with curiosity. “Hasn’t done half the stuff I’ve asked for this week, which, considering her fifteen percent pay rise, means I should get fifteen percent more output.”

“She’s entitled to a lunch break.” Nate’s smooth voice dares Bernard to argue with him, and I know who’ll win if Bernard decides to take up the challenge. “I’ll have her back by two-fifteen.”

Bernard grunts. “She’d better be.”

Nate’s hand presses against the small of my back, and he eases me from Bernard’s office. My skin warms from his touch, and a sliver of desire creeps up my spine.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper as he closes the door with a quiet click. At least he doesn’t slam it, although that isn’t Nate’s style. He’s more the silent assassin type.

“Um, taking you to lunch?” He flashes me that perfect Hollywood smile, and my knees weaken. “Didn’t I just say that?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “I haven’t seen you all week, and then you turn up here and piss off my boss. Again. I’m teetering on the edge with Bernard, Nate. You know how important this job is to me.”

His hand curl around the back of my neck, and he bends his head, stealing a quick kiss. “Missed you, too, Titch. Now, can we go?”

Despite my lips tingling from his kiss and elation that he’s missed me, I refuse to show any reaction, even though I want to leap into the air in glee.

“You are an annoying little shit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “After last weekend, you know there’s nothing little about me.” He grabs my purse from where it’s hanging off the back of my chair, hands it to me, and slings a casual arm around my shoulder. “How about Thai? There’s a half-decent place right around the corner. They’re fast, too, which, considering we only have”—he checks his watch—“fifty-six minutes, is a good thing.”

I find myself propelled toward the elevator, my short legs struggling to keep up with Nate’s loping strides. As we spill outside into the bright sunshine, he drops his sunglasses back in place. Hiding his eyes gives him a more camouflaged appearance, although his blinding good looks still draw several interested glances. I must count at least ten women giving him the eye.

Jealousy surges through me like a swollen river following a torrential downpour. I’m so screwed. If innocent looks from passersby makes me want to gouge out their eyes, how will I feel when Nate moves on—because he will. Nathan O’Reilly is a player. A guy who likes to eat from a buffet. He’s all about new and exciting and variety. The minute I become old and dull, he’ll disappear.

Nate secures us a table in a quiet part of the restaurant. The stolen glances and murmurings tell me he’s not slipped inside unnoticed, although no one approaches us. The area surrounding my office is full of casting agencies and scouts, so seeing actors isn’t unusual.

We order lunch—the two-course special that our server assures us is part of the fifteen-minute guarantee—and a bottle of water, because, well… work. I would prefer to slug back a large glass of wine, but given Bernard’s mood and my tenuous position, water is the safer option. Alcohol loosens my tongue, and that isn’t a good idea when it comes to my boss. His ego requires a high level of tongue-biting skill, and I can’t rely on Nate’s leverage over him rescuing me forever.

“Bernard’s still being a dick, I see,” Nate says with a carefree grin.

I shrug. “I can handle him.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

Silence falls between us, and I fiddle with the tablecloth as Nate’s keen gaze rakes my face.

“What’s the matter, Titch?”

I shouldn’t say anything. I should keep my mouth shut like a good girl, smile, and tell him I’m fine. Fine is a good word, right? Especially to a man. Men are comfortable with fine.

Instead, though, I make a complete and utter fool of myself with a diatribe I won’t remember afterward, even if someone puts a gun to my head.

---