Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday morning, Aggie stood at her desk, and Max sat at his, as she picked his brain about business stuff. “So, you are predicting if you can get Richard and David to pick you for their secret project, then their top three competitors will also want to hire you?” Max surprised her this morning by explaining why he’d been so upset at the possibility of losing David Long’s respect.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because, as your friend Bill so eloquently put it, the grass always looks greener on the other side of the fence.”
“I’m sure no one has ever referred to Bill as eloquent. Cocky maybe. Eloquent no.”
His face contorted. “Are you and Bill lovers?”
“Not anymore.”
A quiver ran down his sexy throat as he swallowed. The action set off a quiver inside her own body. One way farther south than her neck.
“Good. You can do better.”
That’s the second time he’d said that. “Just because Bill rides a motorcycle, has tattoos, and likes to hang out in scary-looking bars doesn’t mean he’s a loser.”
Max raised a brow. “Doesn’t mean he’s not, either.”
“And it doesn’t mean you’re better than him.”
“I didn’t say I was better than him. I said you can do better than him.”
“Whatever,” she huffed.
He sighed. “How’s Olivia?”
They were going in circles. “In jeopardy.”
Max stopped multitasking and gave her his full attention. “Why?”
“Meemaw says we have to take her to the pound.”
“Is she allergic to cats?”
“Our landlord charges extra for pets.”
“I see… How much?”
“A hundred freaking dollars a month.” How could a tiny cat be a threat to do a hundred dollars’ worth of damage to a place a month?
“How about if I—”
She recoiled. “We don’t accept charity.” Had she sounded like she wanted his money?
He nodded. “I respect that, but hear me out. I’ll get allergy shots. If they’re successful, I can be in the company of a cat and not implode. What if I pay you to house Olivia until I’m ready to bring her here?”
Had he pulled this idea out of his fine ass? A trick to get her to take the money? “You’re making her our office mascot?”
“I read an article over the weekend about how you’re right. Office mascots are the in thing to have.”
“You should never doubt me.” Most of the time, he really wasn’t a bad guy. “And thank you for not firing me.”
“You’re welcome.” He rolled his eyes playfully. “I think.”
And most of the time, she really liked him. A lot. “You know what? I think I’ll run again. Not with you, but on my own.” She’d watched the episode of Friends where Phoebe ran in Central Park with Rachel, and if that’s what she looked like when she ran, she definitely didn’t want Max witnessing her running again until she learned how to run like an adult.
“Why?”
“Because I have a theory.”
“Dare I ask?”
“I theorize you get your brilliant ideas while running, because running is so boring you have to find things to ponder or you’d go crazy.”
He laughed. “You could be right. I do some of my best business plotting during my long runs.”
“In that case, I’m going to go for a run after work and plot against you.”
…
Max was enjoying his and Aggie’s morning talk. It was like they’d finally settled in with each other and could let their walls partially down. “As long as you’re not plotting yet another way to make me want to fire you.” He’d been in business for years, and she’s the only employee he’d ever fired.
“I’ve never purposefully plotted a way to get myself fired where you’re concerned.”
The slight rise in her voice told him he’d hit a nerve. “Have you plotted to get other employers to fire you?”
“Oh. Well.” She grinned, kicking his heart into his throat. “That’s the result of strategic long-term thinking.”
“Getting fired is part of your long-term plan?”
“It’s complicated,” she said.
“I’m capable of complicated.”
After a long sigh, she continued. “Growing up, I watched Meemaw work a series of jobs she hated. I vowed I would never settle for a career I didn’t like. When I get into a new job, as soon as I know it’s not my forever job, I start sabotaging. Doing what it takes to get fired.”
“Why not quit?”
“Short answer. Where’s the fun in that?”
Her answer amused and worried him. The last thing he needed to do was fall for a woman who based life decisions on the level of fun they provided. “And the long answer?”
“My maturity level could use a boost. I enjoy plotting a little too much.”
How long would it take her to reach the level of maturity needed to soothe his worries that she’d blow up his life if they ever got involved? “While you’re plotting against me, could you plot a way for me to get more of the young upstart business?”
“Now that you mentioned it, I’ve been thinking. Treadwell Properties needs more of a social media presence. We can start with an Instagram account. There, we could share photos of your projects and mock-ups of your ideas for future projects. All the hip generation uses the app for promotion.”
“Is that something my assistant can do, or does that require a new position?”
“In the beginning, your assistant could handle the extra work. But eventually, you’d want to grow into a company with a hired social media specialist.”
“What is a social media specialist?”
“Someone who knows all the social media influencers and can network to get your company mentioned in their posts and videos.”
“I like that idea. What else?”
“You should come up with a manifesto for your company.”
“A manifesto?”
“It’s a shout out to what your company stands for. Apple has one. Google it. It’s great. I could help you come up with one for Treadwell Properties.”
She spent another forty-five minutes giving him a detailed plan of how her ideas would work.
When she finished, he stood. Drifted to the windows. Back to his desk. Over to where she now stood.
“What are you thinking?” She twirled a strand of hair while waiting for him to respond.
He grabbed both of her hands and squeezed. “Why in the world did you graduate bottom of your class?”
She frowned. “I—”
“Don’t answer. It doesn’t matter.” At this moment, he really didn’t care about her grades. Actions and ideas spoke louder than transcripts. “Your idea is exceedingly brilliant.”
She squealed, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him.
He froze. He’d been envisioning kissing her. But in his visions, it hadn’t been when standing in his office while still her boss. It had been at the end of their eight weeks, in a romantic setting.
She dropped her hands and stepped back. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I—”
He wrapped a hand around her nape and pulled her back into his arms. “You’ve effectively blown the ‘will we or won’t we’ landmine between us; we might as well get the most from the explosion.”
“I have?”
“You have.” He brushed his lips against her cheek. Her body shivered against him. His body reacted in ways he couldn’t put into words. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, say no.”
She moaned but didn’t shake her head no nor say the word he most didn’t want to hear.
His lips glided over to the freckle he’d noticed on the first day that sat all alone right beneath her earlobe. “How about now?”
Another groan. This one louder.
He moved his lips to the outer corner of her mouth. “Last—”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and moved her head so that their lips centered nicely upon each other and his words were lost in a moment that made absolutely no sense on paper.
They were as different as assets and liabilities. Yet the kiss kicked him in the back of the knees. Caused him to nearly tumble them both to the floor. For the first time in his life, Max knew true temptation. Knew it as clearly as he knew his social security number. Aggie Johansson should come with a label that said: WARNING—ADDICTIVE AS FUCK.
Moving one hand down to rest on her delicious ass, he pulled her harder against him. First kisses were meant to be gentle, exploratory, lingering. But that’s not what he gave her. This kiss delivered what he lacked in their battle of the words. This kiss branded, and scolded, and delighted him hard enough to rock his world with thoughts of possibilities.
In return, she gyrated and gasped and groaned, igniting him beyond the point of reasoning.
When they parted for a quick breath, she placed her hands on his biceps, squeezed as if testing them for size, and then leaned slightly back. “Did you compliment me so you could kiss me?”
Her breathing was as hard as his, and the hunger in her eyes matched the hunger eating at him, yet, once again, even in his daze he realized she was schooling him with her wit. “If I was capable of thinking straight, I would have fired you so I could kiss you without potential consequences.”
Her eyes widened as if in horror. “I’m glad you’re not thinking straight. I don’t want to be fired. I like my job. A woman should never willy-nilly choose a man over a job.”
Which, in the emotionless truth of life, meant there should be no more kissing. She’d just vocally chosen a job over him. The irony of that didn’t escape him. The woman who went through jobs like children went through candy chose the job. “Aggie—”
“Max—”
He jammed his fingers through his hair. “Ladies first.”
“That kiss was nothing more than my getting carried away with you singing my praises. When we first met, you branded me a joke. A bad joke.”
“More like an undetonated stick of dynamite.”
Her lips twitched. “And, of course, you kissed me back. I’m very kissable.”
“Very,” he husked. There was something he wasn’t remembering. Something on the tip of his memory.
“And, in case you’re wondering, I promise I’m not secretly pining for you. And we’ve established you’re not my type, nor I yours. We still need to make sure our grandmothers aren’t harboring any lingering longings for us to be together. Meemaw’s had her heart broken by one rich guy. I couldn’t stand it if it happened again.”
“How would I break Ms. Hazel’s heart?”
“By my offering you mine, and you saying no thanks.”
He froze. “I thought I wasn’t your type?”
“Relax. You’re not. But sometimes when you play with fire, you get burned. While I would recover if you broke my heart, I have to remember mine wouldn’t be the only one you broke. Thus, reluctantly, I choose the job over a dalliance.” The more she spoke, the higher her voice pitched, and her cheeks glowed with a soft flush, and her neck developed splotches of red.
He knew the correct response. But it was so seldom he had the last word. “You started it.”
“Touché,” she said, giving him a smile that scrambled his brain.