Chapter 8: One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance: Chapter 8

“Are we done here, boss? As much fun as it’s been, I have a mountain of work. Can I go?” She bats her eyes, utterly oblivious to what it does to me.

“No,” I say sternly.

“Why not?”

She has to ask? Like she doesn’t know she went peeping through a very dark, private window into my life, and I’m basically letting her off with a slap on the wrist?

“You remember earlier when you said we were even?” I ask.

Nevermore takes a deep breath. Her eyes narrow. Everything is effort with her, the little brat.

“Yes?” she whispers.

“We’re not, but we’re going to be even very soon.”

“Oh, yeah? What does that mean?”

“Did you notice Lucy wasn’t here when you came in this morning?” I look down, rubbing at this minor smudge on my desk.

“I didn’t have time to notice anything. This impatient nutter pulled me into his office and accused me of stalking and other high crimes.”

She gets my eyes.

My very tired eyes, thoroughly exhausted with this sniping back and forth.

“Well, she’ll be gone for at least the next eight weeks. Possibly longer,” I say.

“She had her baby?” Miss Poe smiles.

“Not yet, but she’s in labor from what I understand.”

That happy, well-wishing grin on her face fades instantly. Her eyes go wide with grief.

“Wait. Wait, now you want me to play secretary, don’t you?”

It’s hard to pull back my smile.

She’s good at catching on.

“I have some additional work for you in the interim, yes. Don’t worry. It comes with additional compensation,” I say flatly.

She looks iced over and unamused.

“So I’m going from copywriter to your stand-in assistant?” she asks with a visible cringe.

“No. You’re going to be my right hand, and since you’re killing it on the wedding line, you’ll be doing both jobs. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I’ll spare you a chance to make more jokes about what my hands get up to when I’m hot and bothered. I’ve heard them before and they’re not goddamned funny.”

She glares at me like a desert sun wanting to make me a pile of parched bones.

“It’s like a two in one,” I continue. “Didn’t you tell me coffee duty seemed more like an assistant’s role? Maybe now—”

“Don’t even try it. You’re on coffee duty this week. A deal’s a deal!” she throws out with a desperate look.

“Go ahead and move your stuff to Lucy’s space. It’s a larger desk. You can write from anywhere, and it will be easier if my assistant is nearby,” I say matter-of-factly.

“And if I don’t agree?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I just told you it pays more.” Then I remember the day I met Dakota Poe. She turned down five hundred dollars for a cinnamon roll. “Right. I forgot you’re not motivated by money like the other ninety-nine percent of the world. You also promised me ninety days. Tell you what, help me out and you don’t have to write any runaway grooms. You’ll have full creative freedom to flex your muscles and produce whatever you want with my backing.”

In half a second, she goes from stiff as a board to a glowing red icon.

“Really? You’d better be serious.” She scratches at the corner of her lip, deep in thought. I try like hell not to stare, to acknowledge what her expressions do to me. “But what if Anna gets mad at me because I just came in and can do whatever I want?”

“I’ll talk to her. She won’t be upset. Anna loves your ideas, and if anything, this just loosens them up.”

She puffs out her cheeks and then gives me a satisfied smile.

“Fine. I’ll go move my stuff.”

Is it wrong that I can think of better things I’d like to move?

Still, I’d love to move her against the wall, hold her down, and teach those lips some sorely needed respect.

I watch like the half-mad asshole I am while she stands and walks to the door, her hips pumping, reminding me I’m a slave to thoughts I shouldn’t have.

“Miss Poe?”

“Yes?” She looks at me over her shoulder.

“You have me confused. I’m not sure which is nicer—the raven tattoo or the bird who’s wearing it,” I growl against my better judgment.

She blushes.

“Oh, shut up. That’s not even close to appropriate, ”

I hold up a hand, hiding my smirk behind it.

“One more thing, Miss Poe.”

“What?”

“Since we’ve already made the mistake of getting personal, we’ll be doing a lot more of it over the next few weeks.”

“Whatever you think, bro.”

“Bro?” My eyebrows fly up and I hold in a laugh. “Did you just call me bro?”

She gives a rolling shrug.

“Yeah, you’re a bro. You’re acting like a big one today. Ciao.”

“Once you get your stuff moved, if I’m not in a meeting or on the phone, stop by my office. I’ll show you how to use Lucy’s EA Inbox.”

She exits without another complaint and a nice view of her plump ass, swaying with every switch of her hips.

Damn.

I don’t dare stand before she’s gone, or else how much I’m enjoying that view will be on full display. She’ll be back soon and I’d rather my right hand not know the full effect she has on me.

Once she’s gone, I gently punch myself in the crotch under my desk.

“Ow, fuck,” I snarl, ripping my hand up.

Not gently enough.

It hurts like hell, but it solves my problem.

I made a mistake by hiring this nosy, rude, insufferable woman. Every day, I’m digging that hole deeper.

Since I can’t fire her, here I am.

Reduced to whacking myself in the balls like a slapstick comedian and praying they’re a little less blue by day’s end.

It doesn’t work for long. I find myself glancing angrily at the clock every few minutes.

I feel like God himself is slamming a door in my face.

I can hear him saying.

More than an hour later, Poe hasn’t come back, but Lucy’s emails are being sorted and replied to rather quickly.

I’m equally impressed and relieved.

My EA is damn dedicated, but I can’t have her working on maternity leave. It’s not right.

I open my office door around noon after reviewing the latest ad mockups sent to me and find Nevermore perched at Lucy’s desk with the phone clutched in her hand.

“The image with the logo isn’t right. Whatever you choose needs more contrast with the background. This one just fades into it and doesn’t pop.”

She’s quiet for a minute while I eavesdrop.

“Yes, that appears on the page is part of the ad. If the image and text don’t mesh well together, my work doesn’t read right. No, that’s not acceptable. If you can’t find a better pic, try changing the background color. But please send it back to me before you submit it. I’m not convinced this one aligns with our messaging anyway.”

I stare at her, wondering how she read my mind. I’m certainly feeling more confident in my staffing decisions—blue balls and all—until her whip of a tongue moves again.

“Well, the bosshole’s here and he probably wants something, so why don’t you play around while I play secretary to the prince of entitlement?”

My jaw tightens.

How the hell does she even see me? Her back is turned.

And I’m officially a ‘bosshole?’

“Can you have it back to me by three? You heard what Burns said. This line is a big deal and the clock’s ticking, to put it mildly. If the CEO has inserted himself in the creative process, you can bet it’s important. We need these ads in the pipeline and ready to go. The magazines where they’ll run have strict deadlines.”

She’s been here for a few weeks and already talks like a manager? I hide my amusement.

“Okay, four then. Sorry to rush you. I just need to see it before I leave and if it needs a quick tweak, I want to give you feedback before you’re out for the day.” She’s quiet for a minute. “Okay, thanks. Bye.”

She drops the phone into its cradle and spins around in her chair to face me.

“You were supposed to come back so I could show you how Lucy’s inbox works. You never showed and she’s responding to her email.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Yes, she is. I’ve been CC’d on two already.”

“And if I Lucy?” She purses her lips. “Look, the poor girl’s busy pushing a bowling ball out of a coin purse. I get that you think you’re important, but today, she probably doesn’t. The least I can do is fire off responses for her. I assure you she isn’t responding to any email on behalf of Lincoln Burns without his input on anything critical.”

Fuck, I never thought I’d hear a vagina described like that.

There’s the bucket of ice-cold water to the head I need when Dakota Poe is around, I guess.

I clear my throat before I say, “I think you may have just ruined my favorite part of the female anatomy. Also, I had zero intention of letting Lucy work while she’s out.”

“How? I’m sure you had eighth grade biology once—or were you too busy eating a cinnamon roll to pay attention?”

“Watch where you wag that tongue, Miss Poe.” I fold my arms, eyes burning down at her acid little mouth. “You know what I need those damn Regis rolls for and you’re going to rag on me?”

A crease forms in her forehead. Her lips form a thin line—almost regretful, but trying so hard not to be.

“What you need them for? I know you bring them to homeless people, which is honestly kind, but I’m still not sure why. You could feed ten more people with a simple loaf of bread instead of those expensive rolls…”

Interesting. Her little spy game still hasn’t helped her figure out everything.

“If you’re standing in for Lucy, you need to know how,” I tell her, ignoring her probing questions.

“Everything has a folder and it’s color coded. I’m not a complete moron, Burns,” she says sharply, looking up through her lashes.

Goddamn her and that stubborn little pout.

In another universe, I’d grab her by the shoulders, not caring about any bystanders. I’d find a better use for those strawberry lips that doesn’t involve endless scorn.

“Did you reschedule the call with our Italian designer?” I ask.

“Her office is slammed. She requested the rescheduling, actually. I found an available time on your calendar and booked it in the system. Pretty intuitive.”

“I only take meetings at certain times.”

“Did I schedule it when you’re free?” she asks.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“She has a recurring space on your calendar for ‘no meeting blocks.’”

“What about the invoices? They need to go straight to accounting. Proposals from businesses we’ve established relationships with get forwarded to me, the proper department, and accounting. Unsolicited proposals can come to me if you think I’d be interested, but only then. Anything else that comes through with an attachment needs to be printed and filed. The filing room is behind Ida’s office, and she can show you our simplified system.”

She nods briskly, that stark blond hair waving.

“Should I start filing from today? Or do I need to go back and check if Lucy had everything filed through the end of yesterday?”

“Just start with today. If she didn’t have it filed through the end of yesterday, she can deal with it when she gets back. If an invoice goes unpaid, accounting will notice and you can print it then.”

“Got it.”

“Since it’s your first day on a new job, let’s go for lunch.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Private lunches with an employee who gives you a hard-on bigger than a Starship rocket aren’t wise.

Too bad she takes her job seriously, though, meaning I have to respect her despite all the hell she gives me.

Even when she gawks at me right now, as frozen as a deer in front of a speeding semi.

“It’s tradition,” I explain. “Every EA I take on gets fed while they’re spending time with me. They should know my thinking, right down to my pastrami on rye. And since you’ve been sharing my breathing space since I hired you and we never got the chance, we’re past due.”

“I can’t, but thanks anyhow.”

I square my shoulders and blink. No one ever turns down a free lunch.

“Why not?” I grind out.

“Lucy’s been getting emails since one a.m. I need to go back and work on whatever needs filing, digitally or by hand. Cheryl’s sending me a new ad mockup by four and I’m sure it’ll need corrections. Plus, I have to write a series of social media posts for Anna, so…double duty, half as much time to chitchat.”

Why do I fucking hate that she’s armed with good excuses?

My hand balls into a fist.

“Cheryl Helen’s been here longer than me. Almost twelve years. Why are you correcting her ads?” I ask.

She gives me a dismissive flick of her hair.

“Yeah, well…I’m not trying to step on any toes, but Anna wasn’t thrilled with her last round of concepts. Cheryl is worried about submitting it, and it’s got my copy attached. She’s just doing the visuals, so I’d like it to look good. The colors are bleeding together, and I’m not sure she sees it. You need an eye for that sort of thing.”

“In your professional opinion, is Cheryl’s current role a good fit for her?” I ask carefully.

It’s not that I’d fire her. If, however, I somehow missed optimizing my human assets, I need to know.

Dakota thinks for a few seconds too long.

“Out with it, Miss Poe. I assure you I’m not looking to reprimand her,” I say, leaning in.

“Well…I don’t know her super well, but I’m worried she might be going color blind. I’ve heard her talking about vision issues. Also, she prefers writing copy to graphic work, but Anna said her copy feels sorta dated.”

“She’s worked here for ages,” I say, mulling over what she just said.

“Don’t get me wrong. She’s very helpful, and she knows a lot. Deep knowledge. I’m glad I’m not management so I don’t have to worry about these things…” Poe frowns, a nervousness on her face at affecting any staffing decisions.

“So you’re admitting I do hard things?” I say smugly.

Her face jerks up, souring at my mock ego.

There’s my little fighter. And if she needs my bad attitude to distract her from fretting over Cheryl for the rest of the day, so be it.

“Someone has to handle staffing, I guess. It’s probably easier if he’s self-absorbed,” she says.

“Again with the selfish asshole remarks? You must rehearse your insults to keep them so fresh,” I say with a sarcastic head shake.

She ignores me.

“If you were management, what would you do?” I ask, aiming to pull her out of her own head.

“Well…I guess I’d find some class on copywriting trends and send her to training for a refresh. And I either wouldn’t ask her to choose color schemes and images or know that someone needs to check it over. If she’s been here for a while, it’s not fair to hold her vision against her.”

“That’s a fair solution, Miss Poe. Find a copywriting course and send it to me, not Anna. Problem solved.”

“Is that even a thing? Copywriting classes?”

“How should I know? It’s your idea. I just happen to like it, and everyone will benefit from utilizing Cheryl’s talents,” I say.

With that, I walk past her desk.

“Hey, wait. Where are you going?” she calls after me.

I stop, throwing a cold look over my shoulder.

“Lunch. Are you coming or not?”

a voice screeches in the back of my head.

I know.

I know I shouldn’t when every reckless part of me screams “Could you bring me something back?” she asks in a low, awkward whisper.

“Do I look like DoorDash? Join me if you want to eat.” This has to be what self-sabotage sounds like.

“Fiiine,” she slurs, muttering something less flattering under her breath. I try not to smile. “Where are we going?”

She pushes her chair away from her desk and stands.

“What do you like?”

“Hot Italian beef sandwiches drenched in the salty tears of terrible bosses.” Her green eyes flash with wicked delight.

For once, I think she’s cracking a joke that isn’t meant to flay me open.

“Hot beef sandwiches it is, but there’ll be no tears today.”

“

”

“You enjoy watching people cry that much and you think the psycho?” I snort, nearly shaking my head off my shoulders.

I don’t expect a breakthrough.

Somehow, we get through lunch without wanting to murder each other.

Somehow, we talk like normal human beings about entirely work-related business.

Somehow, we take a step back from holding knives at each other’s throats.

A few days later, when I come up for air after dealing with suppliers, partners, and production, we’ve survived an entire week with Dakota Poe as both executive assistant and copywriter.

Her work remains impeccable.

If she stays on track, she’ll single-handedly make this big launch a breeze. That’s easily worth more than the private bonus I agreed to pay out at the end of her ninety days.

But tomorrow, I need to check in on Wyatt since I haven’t seen him for a few days, so I text Dakota.

I hate that I keep a hand over my phone, anticipating her reply. I barely make idle conversation with Louis as he fights our way through late evening traffic.

When my phone buzzes, I bring it to my face so fast I almost drop the damn thing.

I frown, wondering what kind of dress she picked out once upon a fucked up time. And what kind of shrimp-dicked little coward ruined what would’ve been the happiest day of her life?

I send back.

A smile pulls at my lips, but doesn’t fully form.

I start typing.

No.

I erase the text and slap my phone against my thigh.

Nevermore made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want special treatment. She wants to fight, even if that means stirring up the phantom pain of a marriage that never was.

I only wish I knew why that scrambles my brain until Louis looks back with obvious concern, and I punch the privacy screen up.

I wish like hell I could stop counting how many times I see her smile around the office. Especially those rare, bright moments when she stops dishing out her hot takes long enough to shut it and listen.

To meet my eyes with her soul.

To grin and laugh before she catches herself and hides her heart away again behind its moat of past hurts and overprotective dragons snorting pure sarcasm.

Dakota Poe’s smile is my problem, not my life, and not my concern.

It’s just a rotten new addiction I need to stop cold fucking turkey.

Nevermore sails into my office in a black-pleated dress the next day.

“Right on time for the call,” I tell her. “Pull up a chair and I’ll put it on speaker.”

She pulls her chair around the desk next to me and sits. Her dress rides up a few inches, exposing a well-toned thigh.

It’s like that leg has its own gravity.

My eyes want to jump right out of my head.

Fucking distractions.

A terrible part of me wants that dress up higher, though. A nastier part wants to shear it right off her, all the better to get my hot, tingling hands on her skin.

Would she still give me that mouth if these fingers put her in her place?

Would we finally understand each other if we fucked out this suffocating tension at a debased, animal level?

My reason growls.

I shake my head.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head—and if I have, it wants to taste her too.

“Not at all,” I lie, clearing my throat and shifting my weight.

Like clockwork, the call comes while I’m still trying to quietly kill the hard-on from hell that has me shifting in my seat.

I punch the speaker button.

“Hey, Isabella. This is Lincoln Burns and you’re on speaker. My assistant and copywriter, Dakota Poe, is joining us.”

“Wonderful. I’m the lead designer on your project,” she says in perfect English with a slight Italian accent. “I’ll admit I’m slightly confused by this call, sir. I was under the impression our designs were agreed and approved. Now you want changes?”

Next to me, Poe tenses.

“Correct. I’m simply requesting a revision. My marketing team brought to my attention that there isn’t much in the way of simple fit comfortable dresses available in our current lines. I’d like to have a couple new choices produced with comfort in mind first and foremost,” I say diplomatically.

“What do you mean comfort? These dresses are art, made to your precise specifications,” Isabella practically spits through the phone, harsh and offended. “Your bride will be draped in the finest silk that fits like a glove, Mr. Burns. What could possibly be more comfortable than looking like a goddess?”

Nevermore gives me whale eyes, green and unsettled.

“I have a few ideas,” I say coldly. “The whole point is trying something new, Isabella. There’s certainly no one disparaging your work, past or present.”

I hear the woman take a deep breath, and so do I.

Before either of us can fire another barrage, Miss Poe cuts in.

“Hi, this is Dakota. Ideally, we’re looking for something that doesn’t require a corset bra, full bridal slip, or shapewear,” she says. “And you know any full gown requires a full slip or you’ll have shadows in the pictures, and no one wants that.”

“So you want slip dresses? Three slip dresses? Even then, most women need their shapewear. Very few of us are born perfect,” the design lead says with a little less venom.

“That’s the point. We want the dress to be perfect so the wearer doesn’t have to be,” Poe tells her.

“You want me to build the undergarments into the dress? It’s unorthodox, but I believe…yes, maybe I can do that.”

“Perfect,” I say, giving a satisfied nod.

Dakota’s eyebrow shoots up and she whispers to me, “How is that better? Being wrapped up like a sausage gets draining no matter where the wrapping comes from.”

“You’re exaggerating. Why would anyone feel like deli meat if it’s tailored?” I grumble.

Her eyes narrow and dagger me.

“You just heard her say very few of us are perfect. Wedding dresses are made with models in mind,” she hisses under her breath.

“I have no idea what you want. The only way to do what you’re asking for is to go custom, and even then the options are limited,” I say.

“If you go custom, what are the options that don’t require any puffing or binding?” Dakota asks.

“Maybe a slip dress for a slender woman. A simple A-line with a flowing skirt. I can’t really think of anything else you’d wear to a formal wedding,” I say, racking my brain.

“Do a long A-line then. If you can make it work, add an option for a train.” Dakota looks at me. “How many dresses are in this line, anyway?”

“Five, but—”

“The other two can be anything you want if you add options. Did you get that, Isabella?”

I shoot her a look from hell. I thought I was the CEO.

“Yes,” the designer says, sounding brighter. “It’s possible.”

Dakota covers the speaker with her hand and flashes an eat-shit smile.

“You have to give the artist some creative room,” she explains, moving her hand.

“You have to give them rules as well, Miss Poe. Too much leeway and you’ll alienate my customers.”

“That’s where the customizations come in. Plus, I know Italian silk isn’t cheap. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.”

The hell she has.

At least it’s a better way to spend her time than reading about “Is there anything you don’t think of, Mary Sue?” I snap.

I shouldn’t be defensive. Her input is solid. She just needs to remember I sign off on any and all decisions around here.

“I’ve shopped for wedding dresses before,” she reminds me with a bitter look. “If you don’t want my experience, just say so.”

Her statement stirs my insides.

Something ugly and uneven and jagged.

Yeah, I want to punch her asshole ex square in the face even more now. I’m that he ever got that close to her, held her heart, and presumably earned the right not to be called Captain Dipshit.

“Your assistant is right. I agree wholeheartedly,” Isabella says.

Damn. I half forgot she was still on the line.

Dakota grins at me triumphantly like the spoiled brat she is.

“Fine. Send the amended contracts over, and we’ll get them taken care of,” I say, hitting the button to disconnect.

With the call finished, Nevermore returns to her desk. Somehow, she still hasn’t fixed that extra inch of skin showing on her thigh, and it draws my eyes like a beacon every time I walk by.

“Don’t stay too late,” I growl as dusk settles in.

She’s refused to ride home with me several times. I still loathe the thought of her biking around in downtown Seattle alone after dark.

Later, I bring Wyatt his Regis rolls and have a coffee with him, but I can’t stay long. I have to get back to the office. I have contracts with international turnaround times waiting to be reviewed by tomorrow.

I don’t expect to see her lingering, hunched over her laptop when I return.

“Why the hell are you still here?” I say, my shadow falling over her in the office’s dimmer night lighting.

She blinks and lifts her head.

“Oh, you’re back. Lucy’s job is a full-time gig. I’m working on ad copy now. I just wanted to get it right before I take off…”

“You should’ve just taken it home.”

“Maybe so. I lost track of time.”

“You’re stuck here until I leave now. Luckily, I have a comfortable car and a driver waiting. It’s a roomy vehicle, you hardly need to be up in my face for the ten-minute ride home,” I tell her.

Her lips twist. She stares at me silently, hopefully mulling it over.

“It’s too late for you to bike home. Also, it’s raining like hell now,” I say, nodding at the steady beads rattling the nearest window.

“Okay, I’ve tried to explain this before and it isn’t getting through. You only me on salary, bossman. Once I’m done for the day, I don’t answer to you.”

“Whatever you think,” I say, fighting back the needles in my throat.

Is it truly torture sharing a car with me and saving her a wet, dreary, potentially dangerous journey home in the dark?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks pointedly.

“If you’re so intent on getting mugged and catching cold, it’s not on my conscience,” I snap.

I need to simmer down.

Tonight, her standoffishness has me more on edge than usual.

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t bite back.

An hour later, I’m surprised when I look up and she comes into my office, holding her shoes in her hands.

“Since I’m not allowed to leave without you, are you ready?” She blinks a few times like she’s struggling to keep her eyes open.

I flash her a surprised look I quickly wipe off my face.

“Yeah. Let me pack up.” I fold up my laptop and drop it in my briefcase. “Let’s go.”

Downstairs, I send Dakota to the waiting town car. Louis gives me a hand loading her bike into the trunk before I slip in beside her.

In the car, she’s an overworked kitten. She closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep barely a minute after she slides in.

Her head bangs the window softly as soon as we pull onto the street.

Damn, looks like the dual jobs I’ve dropped on her really are taking their toll…

Against my better judgment, I slip an arm between her and the door, gently pulling her toward me.

Her head falls on my chest. I hold her in place with my arm.

There’s more traffic tonight than usual. A pothole job takes Louis on a detour that doubles our time to her place.

When we’re finally closing in on her street, I’m face-to-face with a new Dakota Poe.

Fragile.

Exhausted.

Vulnerable.

She drools adorably on my sleeve. Holding her like this might be crossing a line I promised I wouldn’t, but hell. At least this way she’s not banging her head on the cold window.

I don’t wake her until we’re outside her building.

“Dakota—

you’re home,” I say, sharply correcting myself and jostling her gently. “I’ll get your bike. Louis, you can stay here,” I add, lowering the privacy screen.

“Huh?” She blinks muzzily. I break away a split second before she realizes I’m up in her space. “Oh, thanks. Thank you, Burns.”

She climbs out behind me while I walk around to the trunk.

I’m damned glad she accepted the ride now.

A proper late spring rain that smells like the sea pelts my shoulders. It’s one of the steadier, long lasting night rains that blankets this city when it can’t make up its mind if it wants to be summer just yet.

I watch Miss Poe walk to the entrance of the apartment building before I start moving, rolling the bike behind her.

“Where does this go?”

She points to a bike rack stacked against the old building.

“Do you have a lock?” I ask.

She nods, pulling a lock out of her purse.

I secure the bike to the rack and then walk her to the main entrance.

“I can take it from here, bossman. You didn’t have to escort me to the door,” she says softly.

Rain beads on her brow, spattering around us like a curtain of white noise.

For just a moment, we’re in our own silent world of wandering tongues that don’t quite work.

“No trouble. You’re a heavy napper and I don’t want you slipping and falling out here. No judging,” I growl, instinctively taking her hand.

I don’t add.

Her lips turn up in a smile. Those big green emeralds stare into my eyes, glinting with too many questions.

She tilts her chin up, staring at me like I’ve turned into someone else.

I don’t realize I’m inching closer until my neck is very obviously craned.

Her lush lips are so close to mine I can smell her like never before.

Soft perfume. Fragrant. Cream and honey mingled with something like—mint?

Goddamn.

Dakota Poe smell like peppermint when she’s always boldly invaded my world.

I lean in a bit more, smelling her and possibly looking like a freak. I’m past caring.

Only, a harsh warning in the back of my head rears up.

I snap backward so fast I rock on one foot.

“Whoa, are you okay?” she asks, blinking like she’s still coming out of a dream.

“It’s slick as hell out here,” I lie through my teeth. “Good night, Nevermore. See you around.”

Without a glance back, I’m in full retreat like a coyote denied its prey, head down and slipping away empty-handed. Or to keep the coyote analogy, empty Fucking hell.

That didn’t just happen, did it?

Too close. I came too close to falling on my ass—and I don’t mean my sudden pathetic balancing act.

I almost kissed the only woman who’s eternally unkissable.

I almost lit a match with my tongue and demolished our lives.

I can’t help a quick look back before I climb in the car. I’m not expecting to see her there, perched under the faint orange light and staring after me.

actually, before she whips around to face the door, waves a key card, and disappears inside without another glance back.

I just wish I knew why she looked so haunted.