Misconduct(54)

While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.

“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.

“I do.”

My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.

“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.

I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.

He watched me, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “No offense,” I inched out, “but your speeches are lacking. You’re about as heartwarming as a meat locker.”

His back straightened and his chin dipped, and for a moment I thought I was in for another spanking.

“And your online presence needs work,” I added. “You’re kind of dull.”

His eyes narrowed. “Get in my lap. I’ll show you how dull I am.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his threat as I circled the island and came to stand at his side.

“Here, look.” I tapped the screen, bringing up his social media.“Your Twitter followers.” I pointed to his number and then brought up another profile. “Mason Blackwell’s Twitter followers.”

I eyed him, hoping he saw the huge difference. Mason Blackwell had five times as many followers, but he didn’t have nearly the influence of Tyler Marek.

Tyler owned a multimillion-dollar worldwide corporation. So why did he come off looking like a hermit?

I went on, scrolling through the iPad, pointing things out. “You tweet – or the person you hired tweets – once every other day. And it’s boring,” I told him. “Retweets of articles, ‘have a nice day everyone,’ Blah.”

Tyler looked up, clearly not appreciating my attitude.

I continued. “He tweets every other hour, and it’s photos, family funnies, mundane crap, but it’s engaging,” I explained, meeting Tyler’s eyes.

He sighed, sounding stubborn. “I already hear this from my brother. I don’t need it from you,” he argued. “Twitter won’t put me in office. People vote for —”

“Whoever’s popular, Tyler,” I cut in, not sorry that I sounded curt. “Sorry to say, but not every voter makes informed decisions.”

And then a thought crossed my mind, and I grinned, grabbing the iPad and snapping a picture of his nearly empty bowl of fruit, save for a strawberry half and two blueberries.

Attaching the photo and adding a caption, I posted it under his profile. Lucky for me the device was already logged into his account.

Handing over the iPad, I let him take a look.

He read, “?‘Having breakfast on lockdown. Stay safe out there everyone!’?”

I blew on my fingernails and brushed them over my shirtsleeve, pleased with myself.

His eyebrows nose-dived. “Wait,” he bit out. “You can see my stomach in that picture.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I cooed, nodding.

He glared at me. “My bare stomach, Easton,” he pointed out, as if I were blind.

I held up my pointer finger and thumb, measuring an inch. “Just a sliver.”

The small white ceramic bowl was sitting near the edge of the island. The picture showed not only the bowl, but a nice slice of his tight stomach.

He shoved the iPad at me. “Delete it.”

I grabbed it, feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. No can do.” I shrugged and then looked at the iPad when I heard a notification alert. “Oh, look! It’s already been retweeted twice, and it’s probably been screenshot by ten other users,” I explained. “If you delete it now, it’ll look weird.”

“Give it to me.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

“No!”

I ran around the island, stuffing the iPad into the microwave, and moved to turn around, but he was already at my back, stopping me.

I breathed out a laugh, the heat of the chase filling my lungs with excitement.

“You can’t have it,” I whispered, plastering my palms against the microwave.

His body blanketed my back, and his lips nuzzled my neck, making my eyelids grow heavy.

His fingertips grazed up over my hips, and I realized that he was pulling up the T-shirt.

“Maybe that’s not what I want anymore.” His gravelly voice was filled with promise, and I immediately groaned at the rush of heat between my legs.

But I wasn’t fooled.

“You’re trying to distract me,” I assessed, although I didn’t mind it in the least.

His quiet laugh tickled my ear, but his hands continued to roam, and I let my head fall to the side, feeling him immediately bury his nose in my neck.

“What is that?” he asked, popping his head up.

I blinked as his attention shifted, the tingles his hands were bringing dissipating. I listened, hearing beeps and whistles, and I turned around, smiling.

“Favorites, retweets, replies,” I listed, gloating. “The sounds of victory.”

He pinned me with a familiar stubborn look, but I caught the hint of amusement underneath.

“Go finish your work.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the hallway. “You can thank me later.”