demanded. The color drained out of several employees’ faces, but his tone didn’t appear to have the slightest impact on the woman in the green gown.
His eyes were drawn to her back, to the way her ass looked sitting on the edge of the desk. Slowly—so slowly it almost hurt him—she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.
He might have intimidated the workers. He clearly had not intimidated her.
She batted her eyelashes as a cryptic smile danced across her deep red lips. “Why, it’s Donut Friday.”
Ethan glared at her. “What?”
She pivoted, bringing more of her profile into view. Dear God, that dress—that body. The strapless dress came to a deep V over her chest, doing everything in its power to highlight the pale, creamy skin of her décolletage.
He shouldn’t stare. He wasn’t staring. Really.
Her posture shifted. It was like watching a dancer arrange herself before launching into a series of gravity-defying pirouettes. “You must be new here,” the woman said in a pitying tone. “It’s Friday. That’s the day I bring donuts.”
Individually, he understood each word and every implication of her tone and movement. But together? “Donut Friday?” He’d been here for months, and this was the first time he’d heard anything about donuts.
“Yes,” she said. She held out the box. “I bring everyone a donut. Would you like the last one? I’m afraid all I have left is a plain.”
“And who are you, if I may ask?”
“Oh, you may.” She lowered her chin and looked up at him through her lashes. She was simply the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, which was more than enough to turn his head. But the fact that she was playing him for the fool—and they both knew it?
There were snickers from the far-too-large audience as she held out her hand for him—not to shake, no. She held it out as though she expected him to kiss it, as if she were the queen or something.
“I’m Frances Beaumont. I’m here to appraise the antiques.”
Oh, this was fun.
“Donut?” she asked again, holding out the box. She kept as much innocence as she could physically manage on her face.
“You’re the appraiser?”
She let the donut box hang in the space between them a few more moments before she slowly lowered the box back to her lap.
She’d been bringing donuts in on Fridays since—well, since as long as she could remember. It’d been her favorite part of the week, mostly because it was the only time she ever got to be with her father, just the two of them. For a few glorious hours every Friday morning, she was Daddy’s Little Girl. No older brothers taking up all his time. No new wives or babies demanding his attention. Just Hardwick Beaumont and his little girl, Frannie.
And what was more, she got to visit all the grown-ups—including many of the same employees who were watching this exchange between her and Logan with rapt fascination—and hear how nice she was, how pretty she looked in that dress, what a sweetheart she was. The people who’d been working for the Brewery for the past thirty years had made her feel special and loved. They’d been her second family. Even after Hardwick had died and regular Donut Fridays had faded away, she’d still taken the time to stop in at least once a month. Donuts—hand-delivered with a smile and a compliment—made the world a better place.
If she could repay her family’s loyal employees by humiliating a tyrant of an outsider, then that was the very least she could do.
Logan’s mouth opened and closed before he ordered, “Get back to work.”
No one moved.
She turned back to the crowd to hide her victorious smile. They weren’t listening to him. They were waiting on her.
“Well,” she said graciously, unable to keep the wicked glint out of her eye. Just so long as Logan didn’t see it. “It has been simply wonderful to see everyone again. I know I’ve missed you—we all have in the Beaumont family. I do hope that I can come back for another Donut Friday again soon?”
Behind her, Logan made a choking noise.
But in front of her, the employees nodded and grinned. A few of them winked in silent support.
“Have a wonderful day, everyone,” she cooed as she waved.
The crowd began to break up. A few people dared to brave what was no doubt Logan’s murderous glare to come close enough to murmur their thanks or ask that she pass along their greetings to Chadwick or Matthew. She smiled and beamed and patted shoulders and promised that she’d tell her brothers exactly what everyone had said, word for word.
The whole time she felt Logan’s rage rolling off him in waves, buffeting against her back. He was no doubt trying to kill her with looks alone. It wouldn’t work. She had the upper hand here, and they both knew it.
Finally, there was only one employee left. “Delores,” Frances said in her nicest voice, “if Mr. Logan doesn’t want his donut—” She pivoted and held the box out to him again.
Oh, yes—she had the advantage here. He could go right on trying to glare her to death, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the entire administrative staff of the Brewery had ignored his direct order and listened to hers. That feeling of power—of importance—coursed through her body. God, it felt good.
“I do not,” he snarled.
“Would you be a dear and take care of this for me?” Frances finished, handing the box to Delores.
“Of course, Ms. Frances.” Delores gave Frances a look that was at least as good as—if not better than—an actual hug, then shuffled off in the direction of the break room, leaving Frances alone with one deeply pissed-off CEO. She crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned toward him, but she didn’t say anything else. The ball was firmly in his court now. The only question was did he know how to play the game?
The moment stretched. Frances took advantage of the silence to appraise her prey. This Logan fellow was quite an attractive specimen. He was maybe only a few inches taller than Frances, but he had the kind of rock-solid build that suggested he’d once been a defensive linebacker—and an effective one at that. His suit—a very good suit, with conservative lines—had been tailored to accommodate his wide shoulders. Given the girth of his neck, she’d put money on his shirts being made-to-order. Bespoke shirts and suits were not cheap.
He had a square jaw—all the squarer right now, given how he was grinding his teeth—and light brown hair that was close cut. He was probably incredibly good-looking when he wasn’t scowling.
He was attempting to regain his composure, she realized. Couldn’t have that.
Back when she’d been a little girl, she’d sat on this very desk, kicking her little legs as she held the donut box for everyone. Back then, it’d been cute to hop down off the desk when all the donuts were gone and twirl in
