how they’d interact.
‘That’s good to hear.’ His soft words went through her insides like a fork stirred through creamy mashed potato.
‘Is it just the current month you’re after, or last month’s as well?’ Think work. Think work. Not about being whipped into melting acquiescence by a deep American accent.
‘Just this month. I have the other data already.’
Thank heavens he left then—off to the shop floor with the duty manager to meet the front-line staff, before coming back and meeting with Shona for over an hour.
It was well before lunchtime when Imogen knocked on the frame of his open door. He glanced up from his desk. ‘Already?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him, focused on his desk, placing the report on it and walking straight out again.
‘Thank you.’
She felt the words like bullets in her back.
Less than an hour later, he stopped by her desk. ‘That report was excellent. Not a number out of place.’
Was he teasing her?
‘Think I can get you to do me another, with some projections for the next quarter?’
‘Of course, Mr Taylor.’ She tossed her head as he turned away, determined to reframe his opinion of her and prove her worth. ‘There’s nothing you can ask of me that I can’t do.’
He paused, and it was a miracle she didn’t combust as he assessed her with his blue fire eyes. ‘Ms Hall, you do like to set a challenge, don’t you?’
Three days later Ryan congratulated himself on surviving so far—every minute of every day had been arduous. It shouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, he should have been able to say that things were going better than he’d anticipated—the Christmas tills were ringing, the figures were stacking up, and the staff were all accommodating if not bordering on welcoming. All but one. And he wanted her to accommodate him in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate. So much for conquering the lust.
Theoretically, he should be over it. Every day this week she’d been dressed totally differently from that to-die-for green shirt and pants number at that first meeting. If anything she looked downright dowdy in the shapeless shirts and skirts she seemed so fond of. He couldn’t understand why she’d want to shroud herself in 1950s-schoolmarm-length skirts, and all he wanted to do was get her out of them. While the rest of the staff were looking festive, she looked funereal. Black, black and black was it. Drab and depressing it should have been. Except that on her the tone emphasised her pale skin, and made her eyes greener than genetically modified grass.
And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.
And she was damn good at her job—at a junior level, for sure, but with the potential to climb a lot higher. He could see exactly why Mr Mac had agreed to put her through her degree. In early, out late. Always focused, always prepared. Thus far she’d been right—she was able to do everything he’d asked of her. Except he hadn’t asked for what he really wanted. That was in the ‘Not Allowed’ category. And she knew it. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t speak with him unless on a business matter, wouldn’t even call him by his first name. So he was tiptoeing around her when in another time, another place, he’d have had her horizontal as fast as possible. And he knew—deep in his bones, he knew—that she wanted him, too.
The attraction made him ache. And the impossibility made it worse.
So he spent as much time as he could on the shop floor—away from the temptation of sitting in the admin office. Even so he felt it—the magnetic, compelling instinct to get nearer to her. Much nearer.
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