Page 57 of My Bossy Billionaire Attorney

“Make yourself comfortable,” Michael calls out from upstairs. “I just need to get a couple of documents, and I’ll be right with you.”

I nod absentmindedly, half focusing on his words but lost in awe of the interior décor. I knew the man had money, but damn…I whistle.

The high ceilings with intricate designs, the elaborate artwork, the fact that I had to go through an entire foyer and hallway just to get to the living room, and then the high-end furnishings—everything speaks class and money. A lot of money.

“Savannah?”

“Yes?” I call back.

“You didn’t answer me. I thought you’d gotten lost. It’s pretty easy to get lost in here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I mutter. “My home looks like a shoebox compared to this.”

“I’m not lost, thank you!” I call out.

He doesn’t respond. I roll my eyes. So much for shouting.

Exhausted, I head to the sofa and sit on the edge before moving to the middle and then curling into a tired, sad ball. When Michael asked that we take a day off work, I was a little surprised. After not seeing him in person for a week, I assumed that when we met again, it would be in his office.

But if I’m being honest, I’d rather be here than behind a desk. At least I can finally close my eyes for a minute or two after spending sleepless nights in that motel, filled with irrational paranoia that something might happen to me.

A minute…or ten after trying to sleep without any success, I decided to do some exploring.

I go through a hallway, head into another one, and then another on the right before I finally see another door. The door, slightly opened, like an invitation that I gladly accept. As soon as I step into it, I see that it is Michael’s study.

“Is this where he does all his brainstorming? The smart, savvy lawyer who hasn’t lost a case since…well,” I shrug, “since ever.”

I walk to the desk, running my fingers along the edge of the finely polished mahogany. I imagine him perched on the edge, with his hand on his chin—thinking about how to outsmart the prosecution in court.

Or--

I sit on the ergonomic chair, letting it swivel and spin.

“Something even better,” I whisper with a naughty smile.

An image of Michael seated with his legs spread slides into my head and then I insert myself into the picture, sauntering up to him and taking my place between his legs. One foot on his chest, almost like a dominatrix, thoroughly pleased when he kisses my feet and pulls me close.

Snap out of it.

Shaking my head vigorously, I banish the thought and the accompanying images.

“Like he said, I might get lost. Even if it doesn’t happen in the physical sense,” I mutter.

I stand, eyes on the door when something catches my peripheral vision. A wastebasket in the corner of the room, just a few feet from the door with one crumpled paper in it. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself heading for the paper anyway. I pick it up, read the first lines and my eyes widen.

My jaw drops.

Entranced, I continue reading. A part of my brain tells me to stop, that he would not want me to read this, but I can’t stop. The answers to everything I’ve been wanting to know about Michael in a few lines.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The paper flies out of my hand even as the callous, steel-like voice has my blood running cold. I turn to see Michael looking at me with a stern, disapproving stare that cuts through my skin.

I stumble backward, instantly apologetic.

“I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have picked it up. I was—

He raises a hand to silence my rambling. “But you did. I specifically told you not to get lost. That was my way of saying not to snoop around without being rude. I guess you just thought you would take a look around.”

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