Page 20 of Greed

Abby

I close my office door,spin around, and stare at the bag on my desk.

As I carried it into the building this morning, I felt like a criminal. I scanned left and right to see if I could spot Declan Wells, but he wasn’t in view.

It makes sense since I arrived just now, and Declan likely got to his office at least ninety minutes ago.

Just as I was leaving my apartment, my boss called and asked me to swing by the home of one of our clients to pick something up. That quick errand turned into more than an hour of watching her water the dozens of plants on her terrace.

The entire time I was shouldering a large leather tote with only two things inside of it. The left and right sneakers that belong to the man I spent Saturday night with.

A knock at the door startles me enough that I let out a small yelp.

Shit.

“Abby?” A deep voice comes at me from behind the closed door. “Everything okay?”

Everything is not okay. My boss, Rook Thorsen, is just a few inches away from me, with only a piece of thin wood separating us.

I know exactly why he’s looking for me. He wants to know if I grabbed the document from the plant-loving client this morning. Since Mrs. Collymore doesn’t own a computer or a smartphone, all our correspondence with her is handled via the landline in her apartment and private messenger. Over the course of the last month, I’ve taken on the role of the messenger since her penthouse is a block from the subway stop I exit on my way to the office each day.

“I’m good!” I call out. “I just twisted my ankle.”

Why in the hell would I say that?

“I’ll grab some ice and be right back,” Mr. Thorsen says because he’s that kind of guy.

I wouldn’t label him as particularly thoughtful, but he has a brilliant legal mind, and if I know him, he’s concerned that I’ll sue him for tripping over the corner of the rug on my office floor.

“Thank you, sir!” I call out as I hear his footsteps as he takes off toward the break room.

I use the brief reprieve to head to my desk to hide the tote. It holds the tangible evidence of my one-night stand. I may not be guilty of anything but having a few intense orgasms, but I’d prefer not to drag my personal life into the workplace.

That’s a line I don’t want to cross.

I pick up the tote and tuck it under my desk before I test out a weak limp to go with my fake excuse for yelping when he knocked.

As if on cue, there’s another knock.

That man is damn fast when he’s on a mission to avoid a lawsuit.

“Come in, Mr. Thorsen.”

My door swings open, but it’s not my boss standing there. It’s Carrie.

“Hey!” She lifts a hand in the air, narrowly missing my chin.

I grab her raised wrist and tug her into my office, slamming the door behind her. “What are you doing here?”

“Let’s try that again.” She skims a hand over the skirt of her light blue dress. “Hi, dear sister of mine. What brings your smiling face to my office today?”

I adjust the arms of her eyeglasses to straighten them. “Yes, sure. What you just said.”

She looks me over, taking in the red pants and white blouse I’m wearing. “Are you okay?”

Another knock at my office door sends me toward it with an uneven limp.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” Carrie asks just as I swing open the door.

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