Page 179 of Crazy for this Girl

We did grab pizza the other night, talked like we hadn’t been apart for years, but she was quick to call it a night afterward.

A night I wanted to spend with her in my bed and in my arms.

Now, she’s acting as if nothing happened. Like I never said I loved her. That I wasn’t going to leave her. That I was tired of the professional bullshit she keeps throwing in my face, and we’re back to square one.

Almost strangers at this point.

Strangers that kiss, apparently.

“We received an acceptance from Chef Pierre,” I state without saying good morning, hello, or, have you thought about me at all this weekend because I stroked my dick several times to the thought of your pussy spewed. “His terms are free rein on his menu”—I flick my gaze from over my laptop to her—“I’m not thrilled about it.”

“Why?” She places my coffee down and rounds my desk to look at the email he sent back. “Does he want to cook cats or something?”

“He didn’t specify.” I roll my chair back for her to get full access to my screen to where she fucks up.

She bends over.

I bring my clenched fist to my mouth and bite down on my index finger as I try to respect her wishes of chilling out.

Honestly, the woman is naïve and completely unaware of how much she makes me want to throw all caution and respect out the window and take her against said surface to show her how serious I am of getting her back.

“I think we should negotiate that part, or at least specify what kinds of dishes he’s concerned about,” she continues. “We can’t give him full access to getting us bad reviews if he decides to make fried rats for dinner.”

I’m surprised she can’t feel the burn from how heated my gaze is on her tight ass when I say, “Absolutely.”

“He wants ingredients flown in from France?”

No idea. I didn’t get to that part.

“And he wants to bring in a special oven?” She sounds exasperated when she lets out a scoff. “Who does this guy think he is, Gordon Ramsey?”

My stare lingers down her thighs to the brown leather of her boots that hit above her knees. “Sounds like it.”

“I think we should reconsider offering him this position if he’s already going to be a pain.” I see her waving her hands around. This project is something I know she’s proud of no matter how small it is compared to all the other shit I have to handle on a daily basis.

I rise from my chair. “It’s your assignment. Your call.”

Laynee unfolds herself and turns around, noticing how close our bodies are and she swallows. “Oh no, I—I’m not qualified for this sort of thing. I was just making a suggestion—an observation.”

“Choosing a chef?” I heave a serious brow. “I’d say you’re more than qualified. You took the initiative in the first place. I look for that in employees. It stands out to me.”

“Thank you. But, I—”

I jerk my head. “Go ahead and read the rest of his email. Tell me what else stands out that we need to take into consideration. He may not be the best fit for us.”

“Are you sure?” I pore over the front of her dress, the dip between her breasts making anything she asks me to create an automatic yes to leave my mouth.

When I come back to meet her face, she’s blushing.

“Please,” I reply, gesturing to my desk. “Take your time.” She doesn’t move, and I step forward, my hands falling to her hips. “As much as I’d love to throw all my energy into this prick that thinks he’s too cool to cook shit my guests are going to eat, I need you on this. Can you do that for me?”

She bobs her head. “Of course.”

“Can you start now?” Hesitantly, she turns around, and I brush her soft blonde locks away from her shoulder and pull her flush to my front. Her softness contrasts perfectly against me, not helping my rationality from sitting in the front seat of my mind. “I’m mad, Laynee.”

I feel her corpulent exhale, and I know she’s trying to settle herself when I’m touching her. How it strongly affects her as it does me. She can say all she wants about wanting to take shit slow, but I know that Laynee. The one that’s impatient and carefree. The one that, deep down, has unresolved feelings for me.

“How do I make you trust me again?” I mumble against her hair. “How do I apologize?”

---