longer she hung out here, the greater her chances of running into him, which would be awkward, to say the least. So she and Roger needed to wrap this up so she could go back to the basement, where she belonged.
“You need to take Harry and go, okay? Drop him off at your mother’s or something. She’s always glad to see—”
“I can’t,” Roger said flatly. “I don’t want to interrupt her spa day. You’ll have to—”
Sentences that began with you’ll have to always ended badly. It was a rule.
Accordingly, she marched up to Roger and got in his face. So much for being a team.
“Kindly do not tell me what I need to do,” she began, keeping her voice low, because he would not reduce her to a banshee here at her place of employment. Thank God there was no one else around at the moment to see this developing scene; the last thing she needed was gossip. She always took great pains to keep her private life private, and the other staff would have a field day with any little tidbit about her personal life. “You need to call in to the hospital and tell them that—”
Roger loomed over her, his features contorted with anger. “I can’t just—”
“Is there a problem?” asked a cool male voice behind her.
Oh, God.
Charlotte stiffened with sudden paralysis, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach like a stone, probably landing somewhere deep in Philly’s sewer system.
She knew that voice. That voice belonged to the absolute last person she wanted to see. That voice, like the person who owned it, was nothing but trouble.
Roger’s arrogant gaze flickered past her shoulder, and his voice, when he spoke, was so condescending that she wanted to dropkick him into next year.
“I don’t believe anyone asked for your input, my brother.”
Apparently Jake Hamilton felt the same way about harming Roger. His frigid tone, when he responded, was like being assaulted with ice chards.
“I’m afraid you’re getting my input, my brother. Since you’re standing in my building and badgering a woman, you’ll be getting a lot of my input.”
Roger’s face turned a blotchy and angry purple.
Uh-oh.
“It’s okay,” Charlotte said quickly, trying to defuse the situation before these two badasses decided to take their dispute outside or something. Embracing her inner coward, she kept her back to Jake and hoped he didn’t recognize her voice. “We were just having a—”
That was as far as she got before Jake swooped in, clamped a hand on her upper arm and spun her to face him. She spluttered a protest; he ignored it. His intent gaze locked in on her face, skating over all her features as though he needed to double- and triple-check to make sure it was really her, and his emotions were raw and as readable as a Times Square billboard.
Surprise. Excitement. Wide-eyed delight.
“It’s you,” he said.
“Yes,” she admitted, trying to calm her racing pulse.
Charlotte knew better than to let this man under her skin. Well, farther under her skin, anyway. She knew he wasn’t for her under any circumstances. He was one of her bosses, for one. He was a womanizer, for another. Most importantly, she had a child to raise, a mother with dicey health to care for, a law degree to finish and no time for nonsense.
A fling with a man who, from all appearances, flirted with anything with boobs, definitely qualified as nonsense.
Duh.
And yet, as she stared into the vivid brown flash of his eyes and saw the color rise over his cheekbones, it was hard to remember any of her concerns.
Jake Hamilton was breathtaking.
On Saturday, he’d been boyish and accessible, his loose-limbed body tall, muscular and athletic in those knit shorts and shirt. She’d been arrested by the span of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms and legs and the unmistakable roundness of his butt.
Today he was all dark-suited, red-tied business. His shirt was starched, his cuff links were shiny, and his shoes were buffed to the kind of polish that required sunglasses to protect the eyes.
And his face—
Intelligent brown eyes framed by heavy brows. Angular cheekbones. Full lips that probably spent an inordinate amount of time kissing one woman or another. Skin so smooth she longed to run her hands all over it—every inch—just to see if she could find a flaw.
When he looked at her, she felt hot.
When she looked at him, she felt breathless.
Not a good combination if she wanted to keep her head, was it?
When you looked like Jake Hamilton, she wondered, was it really your fault that women trailed you the way rats trailed the Pied Piper?
No, she decided.
But that didn’t mean she had to be a rat.
“What’s your name?” Jake demanded.
“Charlotte Evans.”
“What are you doing here?”
Thanks for the reminder, Jake.
He still had no clue that they’d been working in the same building for years. She still meant nothing to him. Never had, never would.
“I work here,” she said flatly.
Those brows lowered, creating a thundercloud effect that would have been pretty funny under any other circumstances. He cocked his ear, probably to make sure it wasn’t playing tricks on him.
“You—” he began, faltering.
“Work here, yes,” she finished for him. “For two years now. In the secretarial pool. Thanks for remembering.”
“Now that the introductions are finished,” interjected Roger, “I’d appreciate it if I could finish up my conversation with Charlotte, okay? Thanks.”
Jake stilled, except for the tightening of his jaw, and focused all his fierce energy on Roger.
Roger blinked, looking away first with a huff of impatience.
“And you are?” Jake asked in a tone appropriate for asking a dog why he was pooping on his freshly shampooed carpet.
“Roger Miller.”
They did not shake hands, which was probably for the best. There was so much negativity in the air at the moment that any physical contact between the two men would probably lead to an arm-wrestling contest followed by the snapping of someone’s arm as it broke in two.
“And why are you here, Roger?” Jake’s voice was silky smoothness over a layer of unyielding granite. “Interrupting
