Savor

Until all he could focus on was me, a more than willing woman with her tongue in his mouth and her hand in his hair, her other hand gripping his tie so he can’t get away. And he wouldn’t want to get away. He’d kiss me harder, grip my waist, push my skirt up and . . .

Yes. I want to kiss his troubles away. And he’d probably think I lost my mind if I even attempted it.

“I have to work hard,” he says with this rueful smile that doesn’t look real. No, it looks as tired as the rest of him. “Trying to make sure this all comes together properly, you know? We only have a few days left and it’s crunch time.”

That’s his new favorite phrase—crunch time. He’s been saying it since Monday, when he had a staff meeting and told everyone we needed to basically get our asses in gear and get this place in tip-top shape.

I’ve worked past six the last two evenings and tonight it’s almost seven. I’m starving but trying to ignore my growling stomach. I’m also wishing for my drab uniform of old because hey, dressing like you don’t care also means you dress comfortably.

Today I’m wearing a new black pencil skirt that makes it hard to take wide steps and a pretty, delicate white shirt that makes my boobs look huge, not that boss man has noticed. Oh, and I’m wearing the new damn shoes I’ve worn all week that I’ve somehow gotten used to—sort of.

My toes scream with joy every night when I slip the shoes off, and I might have Band-Aids on the back of my ankles, but I’m making them work. Matt’s appreciative looks every time his gaze drops to my feet for even the briefest moment make all the pain worth it.

Despite parading the new wardrobe in front of him for the last three days, it’s like he’s hardly noticed. I know Matt’s distracted, his brain completely preoccupied with this grand reopening party. It’s so important to him, for the winery to be successful, for him to do something other than play baseball. I think he’s afraid no one takes him seriously, and I totally get that.

But I’m dying for him to notice me. Really, really notice me. I’ve done just about everything I can to get him to see me, but it’s like he looks right past me.

Rather frustrating.

And I want him to like me for more than my looks too. I know he appreciates the work I do for him and admires “the way I handle things so efficiently”—this is a direct quote, one he said to me only yesterday. But what about me? Bryn James, the woman? I may be just some hick from Texas at the mere age of twenty-two who’s hardly lived, and I’m definitely not sophisticated like the women he probably prefers to date or screw or whatever, but damn it, I want a chance.

If I were bold and brave, I’d demand a chance.

I take care of the man, and he doesn’t even realize it. I make sure he eats. I make sure he goes home. I handle his schedule, knowing where he needs to be or what he needs to be doing at all times. I make sure all the little details that he might’ve missed are handled. I’m here for him always. Always.

And he doesn’t really care.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, my stomach grumbling yet again and reminding me that yes, indeed I certainly am.

He shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. They look even broader when encased in starched white cotton. He’s still wearing a tie though it’s loosened around his neck, the first button undone, tempting me to unbutton his shirt even more and see what he’s hiding beneath the fabric.

Like I don’t know. I might’ve spent a few hours Googling Matt DeLuca. It was easy—the man has a ton of photos out there. Some of those pictures are mouthwateringly good because holy hell, the man’s body is perfection. He’s posed for a few magazines over the years wearing little, and I said a little prayer of thanks when I stumbled across those after I first started working for him.

I might’ve gone in search of those photos again last night. Staring and drooling and wondering what the heck I can do to garner this man’s attention. How much more obvious do I need to be?

He’d dressed to impress today because he met with reporters from a local news station for a video interview about the winery earlier this afternoon.

Matt most definitely impressed me. I love it when he wears suits or at least a dress shirt and tie, which is not often enough in my humble opinion.

“I’m kind of hungry, I guess,” he finally answers, his gaze locked on the computer screen as he taps away at the keyboard with his typical index-finger pecking. I have no idea what he’s working on, but it’s definitely holding his interest better than I am. “But I don’t have time to eat.”

“Want me to bring you something then?”

He looks at me once more, peering over the top of his monitor, his gaze narrowed, his expression skeptical. I’m sitting across from his desk, feeling a little rumpled, a lot tired and wishing I looked as perfectly sexy as he does. “You don’t need to do that,” he says carefully. “Maybe you should go on home, Miss James. It’s late. You’ve put in a long day.”

What, go home to an empty apartment and more Lean Cuisine? I don’t think so. “I don’t mind picking you up something to eat, Matt . . . er, Mr. DeLuca.” I try to keep it formal between us, and he does the same, but we both slip on occasion. There’s something a little fun about addressing him so properly. Makes my wicked thoughts of him all the more lurid. “I could call in an order from somewhere you like and have it here for you within thirty minutes.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">