Sleeping with the Boss (Anderson Brothers, #1) by Marissa Clarke
For my sister, Karren Lynch, who taught me smart women read romance.
And to Sophie Jordan, who taught me smart women write it.
Chapter One
“Hold the door, please!” Claire skidded into the crowded elevator, heart hammering from her full-out sprint through the lobby. “Thanks.” She squeezed in next to a woman in a business suit who looked like a prototype for a Wall Street Barbie doll and was wearing too much perfume.
Achoo!
Crap. Claire held her breath to avoid irritating her nose any further.
Achoo!
This time when she sneezed, she bumped someone behind her. Wall Street cast her a sideways glance and harrumphed—gave an honest-to-goodness harrumph. Claire hadn’t heard one of those since graduating from Mrs. Reynolds’s second-grade class. She resisted rolling her eyes. Barely.
Mercifully, the door slid open, accompanied by a classy ding befitting the sleek, stylish, and oh-so-exclusive Anderson Building.
Why the hell had she agreed to this? Because she had never been able to tell Heather no, that’s why. Well, she needed to learn how. She rubbed her nose and risked a breath. Bad idea. She was really allergic to whatever it was—like, ants-in-the-nostrils allergic. Claire pinched her nose, praying to not sneeze again.
Several people shuffled off, but unfortunately, not the person wearing Eau de Hell. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and someone behind her chuckled. It was almost impossible not to turn around to check out the source of the low, masculine sound bordering on a purr.
Ding. More people got off, including Wall Street, and the air cleared a bit.
Floor twenty-two, and they were only halfway to the top. She glanced at her watch, and yeah, she was late. She pinched her still-itching nose as the door stopped on floor thirty and everyone filed out except for a guy at the back of the elevator. Claire found herself gawking as the door slid shut.
Hot? Holy smokes, he was hot—and huge, like a football player. Her body buzzed to life like she’d just chugged that double-shot cappuccino she’d passed up because she was late. No need for caffeine now. Maybe her best friend Heather was right; maybe getting out of the house was a good thing. Claire jerked her gaze away and faced front, pushing the button for the top floor as if hitting it again would matter.
He pulled a handkerchief out of this top jacket pocket and held it out to her.
She shook her head. “No, no thanks. I’m good.” Blasted sneezing. The woman had left an olfactory equivalent of the atom bomb.
Achoo!
He wiggled the handkerchief. “I insist.”
She shook her head and pushed her glasses into place. “I…uh…” Feeling another sneeze coming on, she conceded defeat and accepted his offer. In her usual style, she dropped her purse. Items scattered in all directions over the rose marble elevator floor.
Heather called this kind of thing a Claire-ism because she was Murphy’s Law personified. If something silly, awkward, or bizarre could happen, it would happen to Claire.
Track repairs making her train late to work? Check.
Shoe strap breaking as she ran from subway station to building? Check.
Bizarre, intense perfume allergy kicking in while stuffed into a packed elevator with a painfully hot guy? Check.
Spilling her purse in front of said painfully hot guy? Check.
Four Claire-isms in a morning was impressive, but not unheard of. She shook her head and tried to smile. “Just one of those days,” she said, bending down to pick up her belongings. And, yep, that ripping sound would be her skirt, bringing the total to five—an all-time record. Somehow she didn’t feel like cheering for this impressive accomplishment.
The guy reached over her and inserted a tiny key into a slot above the top button, and the elevator came to a smooth stop. Oh, God. That meant he was someone important.
He squatted down next to her as she snatched up her lipstick, keys, and rail pass. “I think something ripped,” he whispered.
She dropped the items into her purse and met his bright blue eyes. “Yeah, that would be the sound of the last shreds of my dignity being torn in two.”
He laughed and reached across her to pick up her cell phone. His nearness and the timbre of his laugh sent a ripple of thrill through her.
At least she wasn’t sneezing anymore. And hallelujah for that because he smelled as delicious as he looked. Like a big peppermint lollipop. Broad shoulders, closely cropped brown hair, and great cheekbones rounded off the other three bases, making it a hot-man home run. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? She should probably never leave the house. She was a walking disaster.
To add to the awkward, the guy stood and shrugged out of his perfectly tailored jacket and held it out to her. “To cover your shredded dignity,” he said in a completely serious tone. Only a dimple on his right cheek betrayed his pseudo-somber demeanor.
She rose to stand, keeping her front to him, praying the damage to her skirt wasn’t that bad—though the draft of cool air over her butt told another story. She’d probably lost the whole back seam. “Thanks.”
She slid the jacket on, ignoring the fact that his eyes were trained on her reflection in the door over her shoulder. She scanned the floor of the elevator for missed items, but found none. Hey, at least nothing really embarrassing had been in her purse.