as I take in the sight of Erin. She’s in a pale cream scoop-neck top and a gray pencil skirt. A pair of black Mary Janes brings the top of her head up to my chin. Her pale golden hair is pulled back into a chignon, and her wide blue eyes are staring at me, unblinking and a little shocked.
I’m not sure why she’s stunned. I’m the one who’s utterly confused here. It’s Saturday. There aren’t any pressing projects that require us to slave away over the weekend. But here’s my assistant, dressed for work.
When I continue to stare, she clears her throat. “Oh. Wow.” Her gaze darts around as rose colors her cheeks. “Huh. Um.”
Then I realize that while she’s dressed professionally, I’m in nothing but wrinkled cotton boxers. And I probably smell like day-old booze.
Shit. I run my hand across my chin, feel the stubble scrape my palm. Some impression I’m making. Are my eyes bloodshot, too?
“I, uh, wasn’t expecting you.” Should I have been…? She might’ve told me about an at-home meeting yesterday, but I missed it because I was too busy trying to survive the Cookies of Doom without letting her know.
For some bizarre reason, I don’t really want to tell her how I feel about her baking. She probably needs more practice and opportunities to develop her skills. My cousin Cora can’t bake for shit, and she had my mom try to teach her. Mom is a brownie genius, but she couldn’t help Cora.
I wonder if Erin could use some lessons, or if she’s like Cora—beyond redemption. I mean, her name is Erin Clare, for Pete’s sake. E. Clare. Like the dessert. You’d think that someone with a name like that would have at least some latent talent for baking.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, then realize I’m being rude. My grandmother would disown me. Not to mention, Erin must be here on something important, even if I can’t remember it. “I’m sorry, come on in. And let me go put on a shirt. I’ll be right back.”
She does, then she calls out to my retreating back, “Have you had coffee yet?”
“No,” I answer. Then I stop short as apprehension sets in. Is she going to make some? The espresso machine Mom bought for me is more like an AI machine with no manual. I turn around. “But please don’t bother.” Please.
Erin once brought me a latte from the company break room. It was fine…but somebody might’ve made it for her. I can’t survive anus-fart coffee after yesterday’s Lucifer cookies.
“I’m sorry?” she says with a small frown.
“You really don’t have to. I mean, it’s not your job.” It’s true. I’ve never hinted that coffee fetching is one of her duties.
She smiles. “Oh, I know. But I’d like to.”
There is no escape. I manage a dignified nod, praying that her coffee is better than her cookies. “Okay. Thanks.”
Survival instincts wailing in protest, I go to my room, swallow four aspirin and put on a white shirt with the company logo, then shove my legs through a pair of shorts. I start to return to the kitchen, but reconsider. I should at least make myself smell better, especially when Erin smells so divine, like she always does.
So I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face and make my way downstairs. Hopefully, Erin hasn’t found the coffee beans yet. It’s safer for everyone that I man the machine.
Too late. The kitchen smells like fresh java.
“Oh good. You’re just in time.” She smiles.
I say nothing, but watch her putter around in my huge kitchen. It’s weird to see her in an informal setting. She’s pretty in the morning sun. And when she moves to grab a mug, her body stretches, lengthening her lean, shapely legs. They’re her best asset. I’m sure she knows, which is why she showed up in a pencil skirt with a small slit on the side for her initial job interview. It worked, too, especially because I was in a bad place mentally and emotionally. I told myself that everyone needs to start somewhere, even though the reality was that I liked her legs too much not to hire her.
Still, I’ve always behaved professionally around her. The company doesn’t forbid interoffice dating, but nobody needs to have their boss ogling them or acting like a hormonal idiot.
“Here.” Erin hands me a mug with a wide smile.
My answering smile is hopefully not too full of nerves. “Thanks.” I take a tentative sip and