1. Meghan #2
“Well, if it isn’t the ever beautiful Meghan,” he says as he blocks my path.
His tongue darts out to wet his thin lips as his gaze travels the length of my body, looking at me like I’m his next meal.
“When are you going to let me take you to dinner? You know I’ll treat you like the queen you are.
” He moves closer, invading my space as he pushes a strand of hair away from my face.
I try my hardest not to recoil at the feel of his fingers on my skin. “As I’ve said before, Mr. Jackson, it would be against my contract for me to go to dinner with you. Unless my boss was there and I’m needed to take minutes.” It’s the same excuse I’ve given him every time he’s asked.
“Please, call me Elijah, darling. Nobody would need to know and anyway, your boss is my son. It’ll be our little secret,” he whispers, his hot breath covering my ear, causing me to cringe as my mind is filled with flashbacks of a past I’d rather forget.
A cough sounds from behind him and he shifts to reveal my Mr. Jackson.
For a second I can breathe. He’s come to my rescue without even knowing it.
But then I see the look on his face and avert my eyes from his annoyed stare.
A knot of anger forms in the pit of my stomach, and I subtly roll my eyes at him in exasperation.
He doesn’t have the right to be annoyed at me when it’s his dad making inappropriate propositions.
“Father, what are you doing here this early?” he asks, taking his dad's attention away from me.
“I came to see my favorite son, of course,” Mr. Jackson Sr. replies as he walks toward Cooper.
Once they’ve gone into the office and the door is firmly closed behind them, I sit down at my desk and relax into my chair, or at least I try to, taking a bite of my flaky pastry.
It tastes like cardboard. I sip on my coffee, trying to wash the taste away before signing into my computer and staring at the billing reports I loathe preparing each month.
Anything to put the look on Mr. Jackson’s face out of my mind.
I know the dark cloud that has entered the office with Mr. Jackson Sr.’s presence will remain for a while.
As I’m trying to get my eyes to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, the office door behind me opens, causing my eyes to dart to the time display on my PC monitor as I frown at the quickness of their meeting.
I brace myself to deal with Mr. Jackson Sr. again, but I release a breath when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift and Cooper’s signature scent envelopes me. It’s a weird mix of being relaxed in his presence but also wired by the way he makes me feel.
When no words are uttered, I slowly turn in my seat.
My eyes start at his shiny black Oxfords, traveling up the long solid legs encased in light gray suit pants.
I stall at the impressive bulge hidden behind the zipper, causing my tongue to sweep across suddenly dry lips.
I continue up his body and look somewhere over his left shoulder, mentally shaking my head to clear the inappropriate thoughts from my mind.
“Are you done?” his deep masculine voice asks as he leans against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. It’s his deep baritone that does things to me, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hide this from him.
I can hear the humor in his tone, I’m sure if I looked at his face now I’d see one of his sexy smirks gracing his delectable full lips. I’m sure he finds it funny that his assistant is checking him out and just the thought of being caught sends a blush across my cheeks.
My eyes grow wide, flashing to his devastatingly handsome face.
My God, he’s beautiful. He towers over my seated five-foot-five frame, standing at nearly a foot taller than me.
I struggle to maintain contact with his dazzling eyes and drop my gaze down to his delectable mouth.
He’s growing out a beard and has just enough stubble to mark my sensitive skin.
Pull it together, Meghan. He’s your boss.
With much effort, I drag my gaze from his, afraid I might say ‘fuck it’ and do something stupid like offer myself up to him.
With my focus on his hair, I take in the light brown strands, with hints of natural highlights scattered throughout.
It’s short on the sides but not shaved, and the longer strands on top are naturally curly.
He doesn't load it with product and, on many late nights going over cases, I’ve watched him run his fingers through it, wishing it was my own gliding into his hair.
“I’m sorry. Did you need something?” I ask, trying to mask my embarrassment behind a professional facade.
“I need the file for Walker...” he pauses, waiting for me to move, which I don’t because to move past him I’d need to touch him and I’m not sure my body could handle that. When I make no move, he adds, “Now, please.”
“Of course, I’ll go and get it for you now,” I state, pushing away from my desk and rising from my seat.
He remains standing in the small space between my desk and the corridor and I look up at him, willing him to step back so I can move past. Of course he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring at me, daring me.
With my head down I brush past him, sucking in a breath as our shoulders brush before moving toward the file room.