Chapter 2
ELIANA
mis·fire: /?mis?fī(?)r/: noun
But that brain, being the saucy little minx that it sometimes likes to be, has scripted a very different ending for the encounter.
In real life, the whole debacle couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes, tops. Deep in the throes of this REM cycle, though, five minutes becomes five centuries. Every detail gets magnified.
It’s not just Bastian Hale’s chest I’m seeing anymore. It’s every blonde hair on said chest, enhanced into ultra-crystal-clear 4K HD. Every curve of every muscle is there like brushstrokes on a painting when you’re close enough for your nose to almost graze the canvas.
It’s not just “tattoo.” It’s the spread wings of an eagle, inked into skin that’s tan and warm and smells like soap and wintergreen.
And it’s not just “Care to explain what you’re doing?
” Now, because I’m sick, because my thoughts are sick and my fantasies are sick (and probably also because I haven’t experienced sexual contact since the last presidential administration), it’s Bastian’s voice purring something very, very different:
I thought you’d never ask.
It goes completely off the rails from there.
Instead of his fingers gently encircling my wrist and peeling me off of him, those fingers now nudge my hands down, down, down.
Past the soft thickets of chest hair, past the rivulets of six, count ‘em, six defined abs, toward where the V points directly to the buckle of his belt.
Then he keeps going.
I force myself awake there, because Bastian’s inked, scarred, calloused hands tempting my very innocent, very demure, very well-lotioned hands into performing heinous sexual acts in the middle of the workplace is a bridge too far.
Also, getting my fantastical rocks off—with my boss, no less—is not high on my priority list.
I have bigger things to worry about. My eyes are trying to quiet quit on me, which is frankly very rude. I ought to focus on that, not on the thick blue vein in my boss’s bicep or the glint in his eye when he looked at me and smirked.
Come 4 A.M., I am showered, dressed, and staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to memorize the exact shade of green in my irises. Turns out they have little flecks of hazel in them. Who knew?
By the time 5 A.M. rolls around, I’m standing outside Grain we’re talking about a potential three-billion-dollar valuation if he can pull it off.
The “if” is the part that’s got everyone burning the midnight oil.