Page 4 of Secret Bump

I grunt and hunch my shoulders up, trying to think of anything but the velvet curiosity in her voice. Sales projections, hiring targets… nothing works.

She twists around, her blonde waves bobbing against her cheeks. “I should send this to the default printer, I assume?”

I turn my body violently, giving her my back.

No. Stop this. Get out of my office. Wesley will find you a job somewhere else, anywhere else but here.“Yes,” I say out loud. “That’s the one here.” I thump my hand down on it, and it whirs to life. A single sheet of paper feeds into it, then spools out the other side. At the top of the page, Isabelle’s name is listed in bold capital letters.

I swallow hard and read down the page. It’s not very long.

She took college credits in high school, then worked in a diner while completing her college program this past year.

And she volunteers at the local library as well.

Her short resume is as painfully innocent as the girl herself.

Mine.

No.

That can’t be how I think of her.

Slowly, I turn around, just in time to see her scamper around my desk and fly into the chair opposite my desk.

Her kilt twirls around the tops of her thighs, and I swear I see a glimpse of white cotton panties.

Not. Mine.

But I can’t stop my heart from tearing itself free of my chest and flinging itself in her direction.

She can’t be mine.

No matter what, though, I am now hers.

Chapter 3

Isabelle

I can hardly thinkwith Mr. Emerson looming behind me. I’m painfully aware of how short my skirt is. My bare thighs stuck to his oversized leather chair, and now, as I settle across from him in the smaller guest chair, the kilt rides up my thighs again, the pleats spreading at the plumpest part of my legs.

Mr. Emerson is looking at me with that unfathomably deep gaze, searching my face at first, but it doesn’t take long for his eyes to drop, his attention locking on my flared kilt.

I have to force myself not to move.

He glances at my resume again, taking too long to read a resume that doesn’t say very much. It can’t convey how desperately I need this job or how good I would be for him.

I shift nervously while his gaze is occupied by the words on the page, scooting to the edge of the chair so my kilt can fall forward a bit.

“Tell me why you want to work at Emerson Industries.” Mr. Emerson’s question is quiet, a rasp in the stillness of his office, and I barely hear it over the pounding of my pulse.

“I need stability,” I admit. “Iwantstability. And in return, I will be an eager team member here. I promise I will. I want to work.”

“It sounds like you’re a very studious girl.” His brows pull together. “Tell me about your volunteer work at the library.”

“Growing up, the library was everything to me. Passing that love of reading on to the next generation feels like the least I could do.”

“Do you like children?”

“I love them,” I say in a gush. “They’re our future. And they’re more honest than adults, usually, which I appreciate.”

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