Page 35 of The Wrong Boss

I could practically see the rags of her patience disintegrating. Why was I enjoying myself so much? Why couldn’t I stop needling her until she gave me a reaction? And why was I so fucking turned on by every single thing she did?

“Your executive assistant pool is short-staffed,” she finally pointed out, voice calm. I saw a determination in her gaze that I liked far more than I should. She said three words that hit me in the gut: “You need me.”

That was truer than she even knew. “Do I?” I asked.

“Yes. If you fire anyone else, you’ll have all kinds of issues with travel arrangements, meeting scheduling, phone screening, and general office mechanics. Not to mention wedding invitations and couriers.”

“You’re so sure of that after working for me for a handful of hours?”

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “You need someone who can step in and solve problems, like I did this morning. Someone who’s good at their job. Who will dowhat’s required and not need to be extensively trained and coddled.”

I sat back, mulling over her words. She was right. We both knew it.

“So,” Carrie continued, “Despite the fact that many years ago, we had a…”

I let the sentence dangle, wanting to know how she’d qualify what had happened between us. I arched a brow and was rewarded with a narrowing of her eyes.

“Despite the fact that we slept together,” she said plainly, and I appreciated that she didn’t dance around the issue. “I think we can come to a mutual agreement. An agreement with ground rules.”

I realized I was smiling and tried to wipe it off my face as I nodded. “Fine.”

“Things are strictly professional from here on out.”

“I agree.”

“Good. If our past becomes fodder for office gossip, it’ll reflect badly on both of us, but mainly me.”

“Worried about your reputation?”

“I’m worried about how my reputation can impact my ability to do my job. Without respect, I can’t build relationships. Without relationships, I can’t solve problems the way I did this morning with your travel arrangements.”

I couldn’t help but admire her for that assessment of the situation. It was the kind of clear-eyed analysis that I did on a daily basis which had allowed me to make quick decisions in business. I realized that in the years we’d spent apart, she’d keptthat stubborn streak and molded it into real strength. I liked that.

And she was right. If word of our past got out, it would affect her far more than it would me. I didn’t like the idea of that happening.

“So,” she continued, “the past should stay in the past.”

There was a note in her voice that made me think she didn’t quite believe what she was saying, but her jaw was set and her gaze resolute.

“The past is in the past,” I agreed, even though my ribs constricted as I said it.

But she was right. We’d had one encounter seven years ago, and we’d both moved on. Ididneed her, and I suspected she needed this job more than she was letting on.

“Good,” she said. “That’s settled.”

Judging by the fact that my mind and body were at war, it was far from settled between us—but there was wisdom in her words, and I couldn’t think of a good reason to contradict her. Besides, a part of me—a not-so-small part of me—felt relieved at the fact that I’d found her. That she’d be close. She wouldn’t disappear from my life for the second time.

Maybe getting to know her would cure me of this attraction. She’d become just another employee. We’d have a steady, professional, respectful working relationship. The desire I felt for her was simply the hard outer shell of calcified memories, and it would break down the more time we spent together. The image I’d built of her in my mind would disintegrate, because I’d see her flaws, her imperfections. The pedestal would shatter, and my life would go back to normal.

Right?

Silence settled over us as the flow of Manhattan traffic brought us to the print shop. Carrie jumped out while my driver opened my door, and we made our way inside together. I watched her take charge of the situation, already aware of the changes that Alba wanted to the invitations and ready to check over the new invitations that were in the process of being printed.

She bent over the counter, checking every word and floral detail, a wrinkle between her brows as she concentrated. Then she passed it over to me, and I cast a quick look over the card.

“Looks fine,” I told her and the clerk.

“The color of the gold is right?” Carrie asked.

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