in that way.
He doesn’t have a photo of a woman on his desk.
Maybe he carries it in his wallet, or has it tattooed on his right biceps.
Oh, for crying out loud!
‘We’ll start again at one-thirty. Your meals can go on my account at the cafeteria while you’re working for me, unless you prefer to eat elsewhere.’ He simply announced this, in the same way any generous, thoughtful employer taking care of his employee would. ‘If you need anything from your desk in Gordon’s office get it as quickly as you can when you come back from your break.’
Right, and she was finished with fantasising about tattooed biceps too. Julia. Remember Julia?
‘We’re in for overtime, aren’t we?’ She asked it with an edge of desperation as she popped up out of her seat. The movement had nothing to do with feeling needed and energised and as though Rick wouldn’t be able to function as well without her help. She wanted a lunch break, that was all.
She’d travelled the ‘feeling needed’ road already, hadn’t she? The indispensable-secret-fiancée road until Michael Unsworth had no longer needed her slaving away on his behalf.
The smile on her face dissolved at the thought. She snagged her tote bag and headed for the office door. ‘I will eat at the cafeteria. I often do, anyway. Have a lovely time with Julia.’
‘Thank you.’ He let her walk to the door before he spoke again. ‘Could you bring me back two beef and salad rolls and a bottle of orange juice after your meal? I won’t actually be eating lunch while I’m gone.’
Again, there could be a hundred reasons for that. Only one flashed through her mind, though, and to her mortification her face became red-hot as a barrage of uninvited images paraded through her clearly incorrectly functioning brain.
‘Certainly.’ She bolted through the door and promised herself she would dedicate her entire lunch break to locating and lassoing her common sense and control, and tying them down where they belonged. ‘I’ll see that the meal is waiting when you return.’
She did exactly that after eating a sensible salad lunch that wouldn’t get her hips into trouble and she didn’t think about her boss. Not once. Not at all. She was a professional and she didn’t give a hoot what Rick did with his time.
Marissa followed up this thought by rushing from the building to the convenience store situated at the end of the block. It was perfectly normal to buy an entire six-pack of raspberry lemonade and just because that was her comfort drink of choice didn’t mean anything. Bulk was cheaper.
With a huff Marissa turned from placing the drinks in the fridge in the suite’s kitchenette beside the boss’s lunch and OJ and made her way to Gordon’s office.
There’d be a temp tomorrow. For today the general pool was a little short-staffed so the office was silent as she collected the framed photo of her Mum and Dad taken last year just after they’d downsized into their two-bedroom home in Milberry, and a small tray full of bits and pieces—nail files, amazing hand cream to go with the amazing face cream, breath mints.
She also picked up the laminate of cartoon cuttings she’d collated a few months ago—cheery ones, joky ones, sarcasm about pets and life and getting up in the mornings. It made an entertaining desktop addition and there was no significance to the fact that she had avoided any cartoons to do with ageing.
Everyone got a day older each time they rolled out of bed in the morning. That was life. It was certainly no big deal to her. And she’d left off cartoons about babies, children and families because…this was a laminate she’d wanted for work, and those things didn’t fit into that world.
And the fact that you purchased a pair of baby-gauge knitting needles recently and two balls of baby-soft wool?
It had been an impulse buy. One of those things you did and then wondered why you had. Besides, she hadn’t bought any knitting patterns to go with the wool and, if she did decide to use it, she’d knit herself a pair of socks or something.
She would!
Back in her new office, Marissa shoved the laminate onto the left half of the desk and quickly buried it beneath her in-tray and various piles of folders, typed letters and other work.
When her boss walked in and fell on the lunch she’d brought as though starved to death, Marissa kept on with her work and didn’t spare him a glance. If she had a ‘spare’ anything, she would invest it thinking about which man she might date next off the Blinddatebrides website.
Silly name, really, because she wasn’t desperate for marriage or anything like that. They’d had a special on and there were lots of nice everyday men out there, and her thirtieth birthday wasn’t looming.
It was still weeks away, even if Mum had fallen eerily silent about it, the way she did when she got the idea to spring a surprise on her daughter. Marissa didn’t want a surprise party—or any kind of party—and she hoped her Mum had understood that from her hints on the topic.
There was no big deal about wanting to find a man before she turned thirty anyway, and nor was Marissa’s pride in a mess because she’d been duped and dumped.
She had her whole world in complete control, and she liked it just fine that way!
‘Good afternoon, Rick Morgan’s office, this is Marissa.’
Rick sat at his desk and listened as Marissa answered yet another phone call and took a message. He’d told her he didn’t want to be disturbed while he worked his way through the report that had been delivered.
Yet he hadn’t managed to tune out his awareness of her as she beavered away at her desk.
Maybe it was the way her hands flew across the computer keys that had him glancing her way over and over. Or the fact that when she thought herself unobserved her interest in the materials she processed showed all over her expressive face.
Frowns and nods of approval came into play until she finally printed out each piece of work with an expression of satisfaction. Would she be as open and responsive—?
That wasn’t something he needed to know, yet the thought was there, along with others. Rick finished reading the report and scooped up the signed letters that needed to be mailed.
‘You like hard work, don’t you.’ It wasn’t really a question but he set the signed letters down on the corner of her desk and waited for her to answer anyway. That was another problem he appeared to have developed. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from getting up from his desk and finding a reason to visit hers.
Once there, his gaze seemed to have a will of its own, roving constantly over her face and hair, the nape of her neck, the hands that moved with such speed and efficiency over the computer keyboard. He wanted those hands on him.
No. He did not want Marissa Warren’s hands on him. Yet there was something between them. It had been there from the moment they’d met at the bridge this morning and he’d let her come to the most predictable conclusion about Julia because of that.
Now he wanted to explain, wanted her to know he was free—but he wasn’t, was he? Not to get involved with his temporary secretary,
