The Lineup(19)

It’s okay. Accidents happen all the time in projects like these. It’s why we have a cushion of money, but two hundred thousand dollars eats up that cushion pretty fast.

My lip trembles again and I inwardly curse myself as embarrassment washes over me. I swore I would never make another mistake while working under my dad, not after the last time, not after letting him down. And here I am again, putting myself out on the line for a project I believed in.

I quickly pull up the account file and look over the numbers. I factor in the two hundred thousand dollars in repairs and quickly do the math. We will be cutting it close, but we could do it.

I quickly type out a response to the project manager about an emergency meeting tomorrow. I can take care of this. I don’t need to tell my dad. I can do this on my own.

Shaken with my anxiety on full alert, I send the email and try to calm myself.

“Miss Domico.” Jessica appears at my door, a nervous look on her face, startling me.

I quickly wipe at my cheek, just in case a tear escaped and I say, “Jessica, what are you still doing here? I told you to leave at six. That was five minutes ago.”

“Yes, well, there’s a visitor for you.”

“A visitor?” I try to peek around to the outside of my office, but I don’t see anyone. “Did my dad come back?” Please, no, please don’t let him still be here.

“No, not quite. Um”—Jessica bites her bottom lip—“I’ve been told not to announce who it is.”

I groan, tossing my pen to my desk. People have stress balls, I have pens. I click them, flick them, chew on them, they are my go-to when I’m stressed out, need to think, or I’m just flat-out bored. Jessica keeps a bin full of the pen I like so I never run out.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had a visitor not want to be announced and guess who it always is?

Lindsay and Emory. And when they don’t want to be announced, it’s because they have some elaborate game or dinner or plan to “help me escape” my workweek. I’ve been putting in the hours this week after the Carlton dinner, which means I’ve been ignoring both of them, so I’m not surprised they’re here. After that email, it might be nice to see my friends.

“Send them in,” I say. I’m hoping they at least have brownies or something. I could really go for a dessert despite not having dinner yet. Never eat your feelings, that’s what my chef says. Whoever doesn’t eat their feelings isn’t dealing with mishaps and pain correctly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

Jessica leaves my office and while I wait for Emory and Lindsay to come barging in, I reach up to my hair and pull out the pen I have stuffed back there. Just as my hair floats around my shoulders, a tall, broad figure walks into my office.

Starting at his feet, I work my way up past his jean-clad thighs, to the narrow of his waist, to the taut fabric of his button-up shirt that stretches across his chest, to his strong jaw, to . . .

Oh . . .

Mother . . .

Fucker . . .

“Dorothy Domico,” he says with a smile.

My stomach bottoms out. What is he doing here?

Nerves bloom in the pit of my stomach as I try to pick my mouth up off the floor. Standing in the doorway of my office is the one and only Jason Orson.

I swallow hard, digging deep within my soul to find my inner businesswoman and put on a strong face, to not be intimidated by his handsome features or sucked in by his kind eyes. My staff know I’m not a walkover, and this man before me needs to know too.

Pushing my chair away from my desk, I stand tall, and clasp my hands together. “Yes, how can I help you?”

Straight-faced, stiff back, firm set in my shoulders, I don’t show one ounce of insecurity or nervousness, even though I feel like throwing up inside.

Can you believe he’s even more good-looking in person?

The way he just stands there with confidence . . . it’s both enticing and annoying. The sleeves of his button-up shirt are folded to his elbows, showing off the sinew in his forearms that ripples when he moves. His ruggedly handsome face, with a sprinkle of five o’clock shadow, his compelling green eyes, and the firm set in his jaw, it quickens my pulse, speeding up my breath.

He steps farther into my office and shuts the door. From behind his back, he holds out a small bouquet of flowers—daises to be precise—and says, “These are for you.”

Oh God, what is happening?

Flowers?

He’s here in my office?

He’s smiling?

What the hell did Knox and Emory tell him?

“I’m confused, why are you here?”

He steps even closer, but approaches slowly, as if I’m a scared animal, ready to flee any second. He’s right. I’m not above scurrying out of this office when the opportunity presents itself.

“For our date, of course. It’s Friday.”

“That was cancelled. No need to be here. Jessica can show you out.” A firm brush-off, just what he needs.

“Ah, but I don’t work like that, you see.” He takes another step closer, his cologne filtering into my personal space, making me feel dizzy with lust.

Yes, lust.

I’m lusting. I’ve lusted after this man for so long that seeing him here, in the flesh, it’s doing all sorts of weird things to my body, like heating it up inappropriately for the workplace.