Page 60 of Crave Me

CHAPTER 14

Evan

In the weeks that follow, the amount of work seems to increase, rather than lessen. Not that it slows me down. In fact, my drive to succeed surges, as does the need to hold Wren in my arms.

I step out of my office. There’s no stack of folders I’m holding or documents I’m reviewing, there’s simply a desire to see the woman I can’t get enough of.

She glances up as she slips on her coat. “Hey,” she says. “I was just on my way in to tell you I’m leaving and to thank you for my present.” She tips her head to the side. “You’re leaving soon too, right?”

“I have another hour of work before I can head out.” I smile at the disbelief clouding her features. “This time, I mean it.”

“I hope so,” she adds, sounding worried. She lifts her new purse, showing it to me. Already it’s stuffed with the contents of her old purse, and possibly the former purse itself by the looks of it. “This wasn’t necessary. Pretty, pricey, and sweet, but not necessary.”

“Yes, it was. I only wish I could do more.”

“You already do enough,” she says.

“Not for you,” I admit.

I reach for her hand, wincing when pain shoots into my shoulder. A fine line forms across her forehead when she crinkles her brow. “Finnie worked you pretty hard this morning, didn’t he?”

Yes, and I’m still feeling the effects. Not that I bother to mention it. “It’s worth it,” I say instead. “In the few weeks your brother has trained me, I’ve had better conditioning than in the months I worked out with that imbecile.”

I don’t bother to keep my annoyance from my voice. Wren, of course, notices. “Imbecile?” she asks. “Are you still pissed at your personal trainer for saying I have a nice ass?”

“No, I’m pissed at him for telling me you have a nice ass and admitting how he’d like to ‘tap it’”.

“All right,” she says. “But in his defense, not that I’m nuts about what he had to say about me, he didn’t know we were together.”

“He does now,” I remind her.

“Evan, everyone on the entire floor realized that when you went all caveman.” She clears her throat, attempting to mimic my accent and doing wretched job. “Blimey, that’d be my woman you’re talkin’ about, ye bloody wanker. Bugger off before I shove your tiny bollocks up your steroid injected arse!”

“I never said that,” I say, chuckling.

“Close enough.”

“And you sound like Steve Irwin.”

“The Crocodile Hunter?”

“That’s right” I reply.

“Hmm,” she says. “I was going for David Gandy.”

I shake my head.

“Daniel Craig?”

“No.”

“Hugh Jackman?”

“He’s Australian.”

“You sayin’ I suck at accents?”

“Embarrassingly so,” I admit.”

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