IF EVER A time existed for a curse word, this was it.
Becca was five minutes late. Five entire minutes late, and the little screen on the printer was flashing at her with a paper jam.
“Becca! Those files need to be on my desk now.”
Devon Scott. CEO of Prestige Media Group and her boss. Her very demanding boss.
Hence, curse words. Particularly the four-letter one Becca saved for only very special occasions.
The one that began with “f” and ended with a perfectly timed and heartfelt “uck.”
Yeah. The word pretty much summed up her day. No — her week. Heck, if she was already cursing, it might as well sum up her month.
She yanked the tray from the printer, cleared the jam, and shoved it back in. The printer whirred to life, spitting out pages in a flurry.
“Becca!”
“Coming,” she called before dropping her voice and muttering, “Hurry up. Hurry up.”
“Becca. So help me—”
The last page dropped into the tray. She snatched it up, fit it into the proper place of the file, and all but sprinted through the doorway of her boss’s office.
“The printer—” she began.
Devon’s eyes locked with hers, and Becca shivered. Not for the same reason that most people did when they met Mr. Scott. Not because his cool, businesslike expression was attributed to icicles or frozen seawater.
She shivered because of chocolate ice cream.
His eyes conjured thoughts of delicious, rich, melt-on-her-tongue sweetness that made her insides go all squirmy.
And along came that four-letter word again, blaring across her mind.
One winged brow arched, dark brown and perfectly formed. It made a crease on Devon’s forehead, a rainbow of little lines leading up, up, up almost to his hairline.
Which was the precise moment Becca realized she’d said that curse word aloud.
She clamped a hand over her mouth, smacking herself in the face with the manila cardstock in the process and dropping every single paper she’d so painstakingly fought the printer over.
This was not happening. Devon didn’t allow mistakes and… she sighed. She really needed this job.
The phone rang, and Becca lowered the folder, reaching out a hand to grab the receiver.
Devon beat her to it, snatching the phone up and snapping a terse “Hello” into it. But his eyes didn’t leave hers as the conversation went on. They sharpened, holding her in place as effectively as handcuffs—
And oh God. Now her cheeks were burning.
Trust her mind to take her straight on a journey to FSOG.
She bent, hurriedly collecting and ordering the papers before gingerly setting the file on his desk and beginning to back from the room.
Warm fingers on her wrist stopped her.
Becca’s eyes flashed down, and she shivered again. Tanned skin against porcelain. Thick, strong fingers dwarfing hers.
Devon Scott was a former hockey player, and it was easy to see why. He was every inch an athlete.
Every. Inch.
Oh good Lord.
She bit her lip and looked away.
“I need to go,” Devon said into the phone and hung up, hardly waiting a beat before allowing the receiver to drop.
It clattered and fell to the floor, but Becca barely noticed.
Because Devon was walking around the desk, his grip on her wrist tightening when she tried to slip free.
She always forgot how tall he was. Most of the time Devon was sitting behind his desk when they interacted. But like this — he towered over her, her head having to tilt back so she could look at his face — Becca felt very petite indeed.
And for a woman who was nearly six feet, that was unusual.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, calloused fingertips running along the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.
“Nothing.” She tugged her arm, silently telling him to release her.
He didn’t.
In fact, he leaned closer, bringing his face near hers, trailing the scent of pine and spice and man alongside.
“I said what’s wrong?”
The question made every part of her body go all tingly. Head to toes — and in between — each part heated and perked to attention.
Those parts told Becca to grab two fistfuls of Devon’s white button-down and rip. To pop the row of buttons and bury her face in the broad expanse of his chest.
But she had some pride. And a backbone, for that matter.
So she lifted her chin and said again, “Nothing.”
His hand wove into her hair, scattering the messy ponytail she’d thrown her brown locks into that morning as she’d run out the door behind schedule.
First the coffee shop for Devon’s large latte — she couldn’t abide the stuff. Then the bagel shop for his breakfast. Then rushing across town to open the office by five-thirty.
Her life was about making his easier.
And that was totally fine. She was the disposable half of their working relationship. She knew the score.
Until she didn’t.
One strong arm snaked around her waist and tugged her flush to his chest. The chest she’d admired for so long, the chest that made her want to lick… and squeeze… and stroke…
She didn’t have a chance.
He kissed her.
His mouth was firm and insistent, his tongue parting her lips to sneak inside, teasing hers until she broke free of her shock and kissed him back.
His hand slid lower and gripped her butt, pulling her somehow closer as he backed her up against his desk and proceeded to kiss the smart right out of her.
Buttons on her blouse came unfastened, his belt unbuckled, her skirt hitched higher, and—
“Becca!”