One Bossy Offer (30)

“One more thing, Miss Landers. As long as you work with me, we need to clear the air. A little mutual respect can work wonders both ways. No more games or mixed signals. What do you say?”

“Coming from you? That’s rich.” She laughs.

“What do you mean coming from me?”

“All you do is scheme.”

“You don’t know me,” I insist.

“Whatever. You hired me as a contractor over the stupid land and that’s why I wound up on your feet. You suffered through twenty minutes of pretending to like me—”

“Suffered? It wasn’t that bad,” I snarl through my teeth. “I hoped you’d see me as a person instead of a pest.”

She throws up a hand, pulling at a lock of strawberry hair before sweeping it over her ear.

“Yet you had to huff and puff and run off Ace, didn’t you? Because if I like him enough to stick around in Pinnacle Pointe, you won’t get your precious land. And this whole respect thing feels like a cheap psychology trick. You can train me into 'seeing you as a person—’” She makes her voice deep and puffs her chest out on those last three words. “Since you think that’ll help you get the inn.”

Fuck.

I can practically feel steam darting through my veins.

I’m not about to tell her that chasing away the Ace of Clowns had nothing to do with her dilapidated inn that isn’t worth half the amount I offered for it.

Why does she always think the worst of me?

Am I really poison?

Did Simone make me such a cancer?

“Go home and come back ready to work,” I tell her.

“It’s not that cold. It’s July.” She glances away from me, seemingly annoyed that I won’t turn this into a drag-out fight.

“The water will be.”

“It’s not like we’re swimming,” she counters.

“Have you ever been on a boat before?”

“Sure. Most yachts are heated, aren’t they?” she says.

“Only in the cabin this time of year. You won’t get good footage from there and my people prefer hands on.”

She steps closer and points at me. “Let’s get one thing straight.”

My gaze hardens.

The only thing I want to get straight right now is tossing her against the wall and savaging her lips, destroying whatever point I’ve tried to make about professionalism.

I let myself imagine it, though.

What would it be like to taste her lips, tangle my fingers through her hair, chase her tongue until she whimpers with respect?

Her next words rip me from the fantasy.

“You’re my boss, fine. But I’m still a free agent since I’m not on your payroll. You haven’t paid me yet and I’m free to walk away anytime. It was in the contract, remember?”

“Your first check is coming soon. I suggest you try not to freeze your nipples off before it’s in your account.”

Her lips purse.

Her fingers twitch.

I wonder if she’s about to slap me across the face.

Goddamn, would I welcome it?

Just to feel something with her again.

Just to prove I’m that fucked in the head so I don’t have to wonder.

For a second, I wish like hell I wasn’t dealing with her at all.

This entire working relationship is an exercise in patience and self-discipline.

She clicks her tongue. “What time should I meet you at the marina?”

“I’ll text you. I still have your phone number from the night you texted me about how I’m so hot it should be illegal.” I must be suicidal.

I just can’t stop mashing her buttons.

“You mean because you were blowing up my phone for days and it was time to tell you to eff off?” Her face screws up with disgust, but her cheeks are rose-pink.

“Still. You think I’m hot.”

Scoffing, she stalks past me to the door and looks back at me over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you tonight. I’m never late to a client meeting—or an Anne Rice novel.”

She disappears through the door.

I watch her walk away before I burst out laughing.

This is how it has to be, I guess.

Laugh at her incredible contempt for me because I can’t change her mind.

It’s either laugh, or break my hand punching the wall.

When I can set my face again, I put the tiger painting aside and pull out a new canvas.

I’ve painted it blue in no time, layering the top two-thirds of the scene with dark purple and the bottom third with a foamy green.

It does nothing to dampen the restlessness roaming my blood or my appetite for punishment.

How early can I tell her to show up and still call it an evening event?





I stand on the top deck, looking down at the creative team below.

It’s a blustery evening and they’re fighting the wind more than I expected.

I smile every time Miss Landers catches my eye.

Thankfully, she heeded my advice.

Her curves are clad in black pants, a modest desert-brown pullover sweater, and a silver windbreaker over it. She switches off between huddling with the team for discussions and playing director, pointing people this way and that, while Dave pivots for shots that will either wind up spectacular or miserably faded in this weather.