Page 11 of The Unplanned Wedding

Knox

She pushes the door open and stomps in, coming to a stop in front of my desk, then slams a flat garment box on my desk. "You can keep your stupid, expensive gifts. I don’t need them."

I lean back in my chair and play with the pen I was writing with when she entered.

Her cheeks are flushed. Tendrils have escaped from the bun at the nape of her neck she seems to favor. With her oversized spectacles, her pouting lips, the creamy skin of her neck, the blouse, which is buttoned up to her collar, but which only serves to emphasize her gorgeous tits. With the curve of her hips showcased by her skirt, and those fuck-me heels she seems to prefer, she’s the epitome of a wet dream. My dick shows its enthusiasm with an imitation of a flagpole.

I widen the space between my thighs to accommodate my growing erection; it seems to be my natural state since she walked into my life. Good thing I have a heavy-ass desk to hide behind. If she knew about thethickening column in my pants, Ms.-Sexy-Librarian-with-the-Virginal-Air-About-Her would run screaming.

I stay silent. The tension in the air thickens, and I wait for her to break the quiet. She doesn’t disappoint.

"If this is your attempt at an apology, I suggest words would be the better option next time.” She adds under her breath, "And based on what I've observed, therewillbe a next time." She slaps her hands on her sizable hips. “Also, you could have gotten my name right for the delivery, you—" She stops herself and narrows her eyes. "Did you really think you could buy your way into my good graces? Brand names and expensive prices don't impress me, even if these are the same brands favored by royalty in this country. There's no way I'm going to accept these. Besides, I could sue you for sexual misconduct." She pauses, her chest heaving.

"Did you read the paperwork before you signed your revised employee onboarding forms?" I drawl.

I had them redrafted and asked the HR manager to ensure my assistant signed them.

When her forehead crinkles, I click my tongue. "Very careless of you. If you had, you’d have noticed that the fine print says all interactions between us are confidential and that you waive any rights to sue me or my company on any and all counts."

Her jaw drops, then she seems to get ahold of herself. "Is that… Is that legal?" she squeaks.

"Feel free to consult a lawyer."

She tips up her chin, and her jaw tightens.

"If this is how you plan on vetting the business agreements before they come to me, I’m not impressed," I add.

The skin around her mouth stretches.

"The outfit you’re referring to is a dress for the royal reception. It was sent to you because I anticipated, rightly”—I raise a finger—“that you don’t have anything suitable to wear to the event.”

She curls her fingers into fists at her side. Also, her cheeks flame. Damn, she’s beautiful when she’s angry. I place my pen on the desk.

"I have an image to uphold, and it would not do for someone who represents me to wear knock-off brands. As long as you work for me, I expect you to dress in a way that positively reflects the Davenport name.”

She flushes, and opens her mouth to speak, then seems to change her mind. Instead, she locks her fingers around her handbag—it’s one of those faded satchel-like things with the edges fraying. I make a mental note to send her a range of bags to choose from. Can’t have my employee dress in castoffs.

I tap my fingers together and place my elbows on the armrests of my chair, “Youwillwear the dress to the royal reception. Understood?”

She firms her lips but stays silent. Her eyes, however... Jesus, they dart fire at me. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man. But I’ve survived enemy fire on dangerous missions. My assistant’s anger is a hazard I can easily withstand.

I complete a leisurely perusal down to her feet, before raising my gaze to hers. "Nice shoes, by the way."

She glances down at herself, then opens and closes her mouth. "Ah, I…err… I didn’t have time to take them off before I came. I got the impression my presence was urgently needed."

I slide a sheaf of papers across the desk in her direction. "I need you to get the changes marked there across to the agency in Tokyo"—I glance at the watch on my wrist, “who should be open for business.”

Her forehead crinkles, “It’s midnight in Japan.”

“Your point being?” I incline my head.

“Wouldn’t they have gone home for the day?”

“My agencies work around the clock, as I expect my employees to, when needed.”

She deflates a little. Then picks up the papers and glances through them before staring at me. "It’s in Japanese."

"Not my problem."

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