Page 18 of Kissing the Boss
"Maybe a little." I trace my thumb across her cheekbone, marveling at the softness of her skin. "You snore."
"I do not!" She swats at my chest, indignant.
"Like a chainsaw. The whole shop probably heard."
She narrows her eyes, fighting a smile. "You know, I'm reconsidering this whole sleeping-with-the-boss thing."
My hand stills on her face. "Is that what this is?"
Her expression softens, and she turns to kiss my palm. "No. That's not what this is at all."
Relief washes through me, more powerful than I expected. I pull her closer, tucking her against my side where she fits perfectly.
"Good," I murmur into her hair. "Because I don't think I could go back to being just your boss."
She trails her fingers across my chest, tracing idle patterns that leave fire in their wake. "What are you, then?"
It's a loaded question at six-thirty in the morning. What am I to her? What is she to me?
"Hungry," I say instead, making her laugh. "Starving, actually."
"Smooth deflection."
I kiss the top of her head. "I'm working on an answer. Give me coffee first."
She stretches against me, cat-like and sinuous, before slipping from the bed. My t-shirt hangs to mid-thigh on her, revealing long legs and a tempting glimpse of the marks I left on her inner thighs last night. When she bends to pick up her underwear from the floor, the shirt rides up, and I have to close my eyes or we'll never make it to breakfast.
"You coming?" she asks from the doorway, knowing exactly what she's doing.
I force myself out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. "You're dangerous in the morning, Green."
"You have no idea." She winks and disappears into the hallway.
My apartment isn't much—a small bedroom, bathroom, and an open kitchen/living area. It's always felt like enough, a space that's just mine above the garage my grandfather built. But watching Cassandra move through it transforms everything.
She pads barefoot across the worn hardwood, opens cupboards like she belongs here, hums quietly as she measures coffee grounds. Morning sun streams through the east-facing windows, catching in her hair and turning it to fire. She finds mugs without asking, somehow selecting my favorite one for herself—the chipped one with the Caldwell Auto logo my dad had made when I took over the shop.
"Your kitchen is surprisingly organized for a bachelor," she observes, measuring water into the kettle.
I lean against the doorframe, content to watch her. "My mom would drive here just to reorganize it if it wasn't."
"I'd like to meet her someday." The words slip out casually, but they hang in the air between us, weighted with implication.
Meeting my mother. Future plans. Permanence.
"She'd like you," I say, meaning it. "She's been after me to find someone who can put up with my 'stubborn, workaholic tendencies' for years."
Cassandra grins, turning to face me. "Stubbornness runs in the family, I see."
"Among other things." I cross to her, unable to resist the pull any longer. My hands settle on her hips, drawing her against me. "The garage. The terrible handwriting. The thing with muffins."
"What thing with muffins?"
"We can't resist them." I kiss her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Or women who bring them to us."
She laughs, the sound filling my kitchen, my home, spaces that have been too quiet for too long. "Is that why you hired me? For muffin access?"
"Hired you for your qualifications." I nip at her earlobe, loving how she shivers against me. "Kept you for everything else."
