Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(32)

“But it’s exciting.” She rubbed her hands together. “People are making things.”

“Making each other insane, usually.”

“You’re just burned-out. When’s the last time you had a vacation?”

“Me, burned-out.” He laughed and shook his head. “Since your aunt quit, I’m the most senior non-exempt or non-union   employee in the building. I do not burn out.”

“Having been here for too long is evidence for my case, not against.”

He leaned back on the stair railing and giving her a pointed look. “Careful. You just might convince me to take a really long sabbatical. Now, when you need me the most.”

“Maybe not right now, but as soon as I can learn my way around.” She smiled at him, eyes wide and innocent, adding, “Or once I can hire somebody to back you up.”

“Like a replacement?”

“More of an understudy.” She crossed her arms and studied him down to his feet and back up, a slow, pointed look that made him uncomfortably aware of how her pose propped up her deep cleavage. “You look healthy, but who knows—you might get hit by a bus.”

Surprised, he pulled his gaze back up to her face. A strikingly familiar, hard, blue-eyed beauty stared back at him. But instead of the disgust her aunt’s face usually inspired, he found himself uncomfortably turned on.

The preschool teacher had an edge.

“You aren’t as nice as you pretend.” His low voice reverberated against the concrete walls.

She stopped smirking and frowned. “Of course I’m nice. Too nice, everyone says.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Just because I pick on people my own size—”

He pushed up to his full height. She was tall, but hardly as tall as him. “I think you’re just as mean as anybody. Maybe more. Just spend a lot more effort hiding it.”

For some reason he didn’t understand, she flushed dark pink and started blinking her eyes. Another nerve.

“I am not mean,” she said.

“And you’re hardly Switzerland,” he said. “’Doesn’t like to fight’, my ass. You just smile a lot and hope nobody notices you’re telling them the exact opposite of what they want to hear.”

She looked at the floor. The corner of her mouth curled up. “Child Development 101.”

“Yes, well, I’m not five, so cut it out.”

Her smile fell and she stared at him. He became aware of how dark the stairwell was. The only sound was the distant staccato of machinery. And then he smelled her lemon soap again, or whatever the hell she was bathing in.

She frowned. “Smiling is a good thing. You should try it.” She lifted a finger and wagged it at him. “One of my reasons for coming here at all was to help improve the morale. There are too many miserable people. I don’t care what you or my—what other people say, that’s not good for business. Even my aunt admitted that morale was low.”

“Bragged, more like.” He wondered about Bev, the limits of her niceness or her ability to lie to herself.

Bev gestured down the stairs. “Think we could keep moving, or do you need more rest?”

He took a step down. “I needed a minute to reflect upon the discovery that you and your aunt share more than just your looks.”

She snorted.

“Your grandfather’s floor is the next one. One half of it is storage, though.” He pulled open the fire door—marked AUTHORIZED VISITORS ONLY—and let her walk ahead of him. A long, well-lit hallway with wood floors and buff-colored walls stretched in either direction. Ed’s office was off to the right, through a frosted glass door with CAPTAIN printed on it with gilt block lettering.

“Captain?”

“He thought of Fite as a ship,” Liam said.

“Not very democratic, ships.”

“No.”

She walked towards the glass door. “Don’t tell me there were floggings.”

He stopped and gave her a hard look. “Listen, Bev. You can change a lot of things, but if you get rid of the flogging this place is going to fall apart.”

She came to a halt and stared at him. Then whacked him hard on the arm. “I had to get the comedian.”

He rubbed his stinging arm. “So much for not flogging.”

“Executives deserve it. I just wish the rest of the company could have seen it. Good for morale.” She walked over to the glass door and tried the handle, but Liam had to pull out his keys to let them in.

“At least these still work,” he said under his breath. He had to get her tucked away where she wouldn’t cause any trouble. My God, he’d almost been flirting with her.

More like a frat house lounge than an office, Ed Roche’s private suite stretched along a wall of windows overlooking SOMA San Francisco. Gym equipment scattered around islands of modular furniture like lily pads: an elliptical trainer, a treadmill, a stationary bike, other bulky machines with pulleys and straps. Free weights stacked up with bars in racks along one wall, reflected in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors behind them. A jukebox huddled in the corner, powered-up and glowing.

“Lord,” Bev said, squinting. “Is that an ice hockey table over there?”

“Vintage.”

“It’s very male, isn’t it?”