One Night with the Boss Read online

  Into a saucepan she poured a plastic container of soup that she’d bought at the specialty grocery store in town. No canned stuff for him. After that she buttered slices of bread, added cheese and ham, then put the sandwiches in a frying pan on the cooktop.

  “Voilà. A hot and hearty meal.” Turning, she saw him watching her and smiled. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s filling and nutritious.”

  “This bachelor is pathetically grateful for you throwing something together.”

  “You’re welcome. Why don’t you pour the wine and we can start with our salad.”

  He did as she asked, then held the chair for her to sit. It could have been imagination or a trick of the lighting, but he swore her cheeks blushed a pretty pink. For the next hour they talked, laughed and polished off the bottle of wine. Brady was feeling kind of perfect as they cleaned up the kitchen together.

  Then a weird feeling came over him. They spent hours working together during the day and had done so for the last five years. There was a routine. Work. She went home, he stayed here alone—unless he had female company.

  But he suddenly realized that everything with Olivia was different since he’d kissed her. For one thing, this house had never seemed so big and lonely before. Having her here now made him aware of just how alone he felt when she was gone.

  They were standing in front of the sink, where she was washing the frying pan, and he waited for her to hand it over to be dried. All he could think about was pulling her against him and kissing her. In a few weeks she’d be gone and so would the temptation. There was something he was curious about and if he wanted an answer, now was the time.

  “Liv, do you remember that night you dropped by spontaneously? You said you had something to tell me and it couldn’t wait until Monday?”

  “What?” She blinked at him like a deer caught in headlights. The surprise was just as stark and real as when he’d broken off that unexpected and spectacular kiss.

  “You remember. You’d been out for a girls’ night with Sydney McKnight. She was the designated driver and dropped you off because you insisted on talking to me.”

  She’d had a little too much girls’ night out and told him that her friend had tried to talk her out of dropping by. But she was adamant that it was way past time to tell him what was on her mind. Some instinct told him nothing would be the same if she did, so Brady hadn’t pushed it that night. Afterward he figured ignorance was bliss, but not so much now.

  “What did you want to say to me?” he asked, drying the pan she handed over.

  She took longer than necessary to dry her hands on the dish towel and fold it, setting it beside the sink. Shrugging, she said, “I don’t remember.”

  But she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “You recall spending the night,” he prompted.

  “Not really.” She glanced around the kitchen, checking to see that everything was tidy. And still avoided looking at him.

  Brady didn’t believe her. In spite of pulling off the Leonard story for a while, she wasn’t a very good liar. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa and he’d carried her upstairs, put her to bed.

  Tonight he wanted to take her to bed—his bed.

  Now she looked at him. “I’m really tired. It’s been a long day. I think I’ll go up. My usual room?”

  With every ounce of testosterone in his body he wanted to say, no, my room. Somehow he held back. “Yeah.”

  “Good night, Brady. See you tomorrow.”

  That’s what she said every evening before heading home, but this time he wanted more.

  He threw his dish towel on the counter and swore in frustration. He went to the wet bar in the family room and grabbed a bottle of scotch. After opening it, he poured some into a tumbler then tossed it back.

  Change was never good. He hated it and couldn’t seem to stop what was happening now. Because he’d kissed Olivia. The thing was, he wasn’t the kind of guy who would hit on a woman committed to another man. But she wasn’t, really.

  What if he romanced her, just to out her on the fake boyfriend? If he could get her to admit it, they could have a serious discussion about the fact that she didn’t really want to leave. This was his good deed, saving her from herself.

  It was a plan, and in his opinion a good one. Tomorrow he would put it into action.

  Chapter Nine

  “So, what are you cooking for breakfast?”

  Olivia closed the refrigerator and turned to look at Brady who was showered, dressed and smelling like the sexiest possible combination of spice and sin. Her pulse started to race and her knees literally got weak. Whatever cologne he used should be illegal on account of it giving him an unfair advantage.

  “I already made a pot of coffee.” She knew this was token resistance because he always got his way. “Didn’t we go through this last night?”

  “We did.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You are my beautiful, brilliant assistant and I have skills to control the weather in order to get you to cook.”

  “Technically that’s what we talked about, but—”

  “What?”

  “I really need to go home and change.” She was wearing stuff she’d borrowed from him that made her look as sexy as a sack of potatoes. “I need to get ready for work.”

  He leaned a broad shoulder against the wall just inside the doorway. “There are two problems with that idea. One: your boss doesn’t care if you wear sweatpants too big for you and an equally oversized T-shirt.”

  “What’s the second problem?”

  “The roads haven’t been plowed yet. You know as well as I do that out here by the lake is the last place to get cleared.”

  “Oh.”

  “Therefore, I repeat—what’s for breakfast?”

  “What do you do when you’re alone?”

  “Pop-Tarts.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know, right?” He grinned. “You might want to be proactive in this whole process of healthier eating. It would be very helpful.”

  Trying to keep a straight face, Olivia stared at him. “Number one—you’re the host. Number two—that makes it your responsibility to plan the menu and prepare provisions. Something nutritious.”

  “I can do that,” he said cheerfully.

  It struck her as a little odd how cheerful he was, considering he’d been such a gloomy pain in the neck since she’d given her notice. Maybe he was reconciled to the inevitable. But he could be a little less enthusiastically cheerful, she thought peevishly.

  “You should make omelets,” she suggested. “And before you say no, I know you can do it.”

  He’d made a really good breakfast that time she’d dropped by unannounced—when she’d had the terrible idea to tell him exactly how she felt about him. But he’d given her a glass of wine and on top of what she’d had with Sydney, she fell asleep before spilling her guts. A good thing, too. Work would have been awkward and she’d probably have lost his friendship. When the buzz wore off, she’d realized that was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

  “Omelets coming up.” He moved in front of the cooktop. “Mushrooms, tomato, spinach and cheese?”

  That was what they both liked. “I’ll cut everything up.”

  “And make toast?” He reached up and easily retrieved the shallow, curved stainless steel pan from the hanging rack over the kitchen island.

  All of her feminine parts quivered and sighed as she watched him. “Yes, I can do toast. But that means you set the table.”

  “Deal.”

  She blinked at him. “That was too easy.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” He had the fridge open and was bending over to pull the vegetables out of the crisper.

  Olivia wasn’t sure she’d ever noticed before what a
n awesome butt he had. And that’s when she realized things were not the same. When she’d spent the night at his house before, they’d always sparred over division of chores involved with food preparation and cleanup. Before, the banter had always been easy and comfortable. This morning was different and complicated.

  It was because of that kiss. She’d always had a crush on Brady, but it had gone to the next level the moment his lips touched hers.

  “What was too easy?” He set tomato, mushrooms and spinach on the island, then handed her a knife and cutting board.

  “You agreed to cook and set the table.” She shrugged. “Normally there’s more negotiation and I end up doing most of the work.”

  “I help clean up,” he protested.

  “Telling me where everything goes doesn’t qualify as actually exerting yourself.”

  “Wow.” He looked at her, then cracked eggs into a bowl. “Someone woke up on the crabby side of the bed. That was downright surly.”

  “Not by a long shot.” She took a tomato and diced it up, perhaps using a little more force than was necessary.

  “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “Since when do you notice what kind of mood I’m in?”

  “I always do.” He added milk to the eggs and whipped them with a wire whisk. “It just doesn’t always require me to make a comment.”

  “Today is different?” Maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

  “Yes, it is. Because I’m trying to make your last few weeks as my assistant as pleasant as possible.”

  She was a little skeptical of his sincerity, but her parents had brought her up to always be gracious. “That’s very nice of you.”

  “I’m a very nice guy.”

  And humble, too, she wanted to say, but she knew that wasn’t being fair. He was a nice guy. It’s just that spending the night with him—scratch that, sleeping in his house—had brought out deeply buried feelings, then teased her with everything she’d ever wanted and would never have. That’s why she was leaving. Why was it that the smart and rational move turned her into a sarcastic witch?

  “Veggies and cheese are ready,” she told him. “I’ll make the toast. Wheat?”

  “You’re reading my mind.” He was setting out plates, napkins and eating utensils. “I’ll do the eggs now.”

  She popped bread into his four-slice toaster then watched him cook. At just the right moment he scraped the vegetables and cheese onto the eggs then expertly folded it over.

  “You’re very good at that,” she said.

  “I’m very good at a lot of things.” He glanced over his shoulder and there was a roguish look in his eyes.

  He probably made omelets for his overnight female guests all the time. Olivia had seen the evidence, what with working in his house. Forgotten lipstick. Undergarments made of satin and lace. Girl stuff. She had no right to be jealous but that never stopped her before. Until now she’d never commented in an effort not to compromise their working relationship. But now she had nothing to lose.

  She leaned her elbows on the granite-topped island and rested her chin in her hands. “I guess you’ve had a lot of practice cooking for the women who spent the night here.”

  He met her gaze, one dark eyebrow raised. “Why, Miss Lawson, are you jealous?”

  “Nope. Curious.”

  “Actually, my mother made sure I knew how to make basic things so I wouldn’t starve or eat junk. It was her philosophy that boys should know how to take care of themselves and not live in an environment that the health department would condemn.”

  “Your mother is a smart woman.”

  “I think so, too.” He cut the omelet with the spatula and put half on each plate.

  She buttered the toast and added that to the eggs and they grabbed the food and took it to the table.

  “I’ll pour the coffee,” she said.

  “That would be great.” He sat down with his back to the window that looked out on the majestic, snow-covered mountains. “Just so we both agree you volunteered and I’m not a male sexist pig.”

  “So stipulated.” She laughed even while wishing his charm was less potent. “I guess you dusted off your sensitivity chip, because it’s intact and functioning today.”

  She retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. After filling them, she set one beside each of their plates then brought sweetener and cream to the table.

  Brady stirred both into the dark, steaming liquid, then took a sip. “You make the best coffee, Liv. At the risk of being that obnoxious, overbearing boss, it would mean a lot to me if you would pass along the secret to your replacement.”

  “So you’ve moved past anger and denial and are settling into acceptance of the situation?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really, no.” Again she noticed the lack of annoyance and pouting on his part. It was very uncharacteristic and disconcerting.

  “That reminds me,” he said. “I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

  “What?” She was about to take another sip of coffee. If his timing had been just a little different, she would have choked on it. “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re...you,” she said lamely.

  “And your point?”

  “You’re the boss. Oh, I get it. This is a working dinner.”

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t get it.” She stared at him, trying to figure out what was going through his mind.

  “There’s nothing to get. Can’t I take my assistant out for a nice dinner?”

  “You never have before.” Just when she’d thought it was safe to let down her guard.

  “Sure I have.”

  She shook her head. “There were meals out that you paid for, but work was always involved. What are you up to, Brady?”

  “Wow.” He took a bite of eggs and chewed, his gaze locked on hers. “Feel the love.”

  No. She didn’t want to. Not anymore. “This isn’t like you.”

  “How do you know? This is the first time you quit.”

  “It’s actually the third time, but who’s counting? You never believed me before.”

  He set his fork down on his plate. “Look, if you’re right, and I’m sure you are, it’s about time I treated you to a nice, leisurely dinner before you leave. No work talk allowed. After all, they say third time’s the charm.”

  “I don’t know about this—”

  “Come on, Liv. Just say yes. You know I’ll get my way eventually. I always do.”

  That was true; it’s why she’d made up a boyfriend. Only a lie would get her out of this gracefully, and how graceful was that? “All right. That would be very nice.”

  “Great. Tonight.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up. “I have work to do.”

  “Okay. I’ll do the dishes.” She started to stand.

  “Finish your breakfast. And leave this for the housekeeper.” Just before walking out of the room, he stopped and looked at her. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear a nice little black dress.”

  Before she could protest, he was gone. She stared at the empty doorway, wondering what just happened.

  “You’re up to something, Brady O’Keefe. What game are you playing?”

  Pretend boyfriends were so much easier to understand.

  * * *

  That evening, Brady pulled his car to a stop outside of Olivia’s apartment building while nursing a high level of anticipation for seeing her in a little black dress. Did she have any clue how cute she’d looked wearing his clothes that morning? It wouldn’t have bothered him if she’d lost the sweats, letting him get a good look at her legs. He’d seen them before when she wore skirts, but he’d have liked to see more. They were pretty spectacular legs. The T-sh
irt would have covered other stuff he was curious about, but...

  Now the best he could hope for was her taking his suggestion about the little black dress. Especially because he’d feel kind of stupid in this suit and tie if she was in jeans.

  After looking at his watch and noting it was 6:59, he opened the door of his SUV. After the snowstorm, he’d decided it would hold the road better than the sports car. The cold air hit him like a block of ice and he could see his breath. When Olivia moved to California, would she miss Montana winters? Or would she be relieved to be out of here?

  Away from him.

  Brady walked briskly up the sidewalk. It had been a while since he’d come to her place and past visits had probably been work-related. This was about work, too, having everything to do with maintaining his well-organized business environment.

  The sidewalk had been salted so as not to be slippery and the pellets crunched under his shoes. Except for the walkway, snow covered the ground on the path to apartment number ten.

  Outside her door was a large red clay pot filled with potting soil and a dead plant he couldn’t identify. Stuck in the dirt was a wrought-iron stand holding a flag that said Welcome Friends.

  Brady figured he fell into that category and knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and he got his answer to the question of her attire. She’d taken his suggestion and looked more amazing than he’d ever seen her look.

  The dress was high necked, long sleeved and all lace. The skirt was short enough to let him see more of her legs than he ever had before. Instead of satisfying his curiosity, it just made him want to check out the view all the way up. And then there were the smoky, silky black nylons she was wearing with mile-high patent leather heels.

  He nearly swallowed his tongue, which made it kind of impossible to say anything, but fortunately his eyes were working just fine.

  Olivia frowned. “Brady? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. It’s just—” There really was no way to explain this reaction, so he said, “It’s cold out here.”

  “Oh. Right. Come in.” She stepped back and pulled the door wide.