Page 48 of Obsession

Forhim, not me.

She had never laughed for me, never would, and I couldn’t forget that.

The worst part was now I was hungry. I hadn’t stopped to eat, hadn’t done anything but grab a power bar and a coffee on my way back into the office.

Now? My stomach was growling like the rest of me when it came to dealing with Grace.

But I would ignore it. My appetites were satisfied, all right, and I wasn’t about to sit through another interminable lunch while Grace cheerfully mocked my chopstick technique.

I returned to my notes, determined not to glance toward the glass. Then my IM window flashed again.

Grace

Jack ordered Chinese. He got you your favorite—nutty chicken. It will be here soon.

Nutty chicken? My eyebrow lifted as I tapped out a reply.

Peanut chicken is not nutty chicken.

Grace

Hmm, sounds like nuts to me. I like nuts. A lot.

She was baiting me. I was almost sure of it. Whether she was hoping to make me uncomfortable or was just having a fine time at my expense, I couldn’t be certain.

Either way, I wasn’t going to engage. We worked together. Work was all we would do, this morning aside.

Have you had a chance to prioritize this morning’s correspondence yet or has Mr. Hollister’s witty repartee kept you too occupied?

That wasn’t what I had intended to say. I wasn’t jealous. I was simply annoyed that Ms. Copeland clearly didn’t value work as highly as I did.

Otherwise, she would send Jack back to his office to play with his brightly-colored tie behind closed doors.

Damn guy was always smiling. Always. Jolly asshole.

This time, she didn’t reply.

Shortly afterward, Jack ambled off, whistling.

I went back to my notes. Work, I understood.

It wasn’t long before my IM chimed again.

Grace

Your mail has been sorted and prioritized. Shall I bring it in now? Perhaps gather you a cup of tea and a scone?

Your sarcasm is neither welcome nor appreciated.

Grace

My apologies, sir.

I narrowed my gaze on Grace’s form through the glass. She sat at her desk, her hair restrained in a neat braid, her fingers flying over the keys.

Beneath her desk, I could see the hem of her long skirt flirting with her slim calves. Her shoes weren’t sexy. Far from it. They appeared to be chunky-heeled, buckled things that were for function more than form.

I shifted on my seat just the same at the telltale stirring in my pants. Between her calling mesirand those narrow ankles, both strong and delicate, peeking out between skirt and shoe, I had to fist my hands on the edge of my desk.

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