W
ednesdays weren’t the best bar shifts for making cash, but they were better than nothing. Plus I’d managed to finish up a design project for a client—a series of Facebook graphics
for a product launch—between Label and my shift at Rooster’s.
The invoice was sent, and my tip jar was half-full. My first paycheck from Label was slated for next week, and Dad had been discharged back to the nursing home this morning.
Things were moving in the right direction.
“Have a good night, guys,” I called after two patrons who had warmed barstools for two hours, arguing seventeenth century literature and flirting with me.
They’d left me a thirty percent tip that made my mercenary heart tap out a pitter-pat.
That pitter-pat turned into an aggressive timpani solo when Domnic Russo took one of the vacated stools.
We stared at each other while he shrugged out of his coat. He was dressed more casually than he had been in the office. Jeans and a well- fitting gray sweater that made his blue eyes look more silver. His sleeves were shoved up, revealing tattoos on both forearms.
Yum.
What was it about this man that made me feel… whatever this was? Wordlessly, I dropped a napkin on the bar in front of him.
The bar was still loud, still busy. But everything seemed to fade into a blurry background as we stared at each other.
What was this?
Why was he here?
Why did I want to climb over this bar and slide into his lap? Well. Besides the obvious.
“What’ll it be, boss?” I asked, going for light, blasé even. But when the words came out, they sounded like a proposition to me. Beer? Bourbon? Me?
He pointed to a craft beer on tap and leaned his forearms on the bar. I poured his beer and set it in front of him.
“Yo, Al, got a round of bachelorette shots comin’ up,” one of the servers called from the end of the bar. I was old enough to be his very young aunt.
Relieved I turned away from those eyes that were burning holes into me and yanked the ticket off the printer. I went to work, pretending that every fiber of my being wasn’t focused on the man behind me.
I made six Screaming Orgasms, poured four more beers, and shook up two martinis before finding my way back to Dominic.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Do you get a break?” He pushed his empty glass toward me. His gaze lingered on the beaded bracelets on my wrist.
“I get fifteen,” I said, wondering what he could possibly want badly enough to come down here and sit at my bar.
“Will you eat with me?” he asked.
Now I was nervous. He was being nice. Polite. I trusted the grumpy, yelly version of him a hell of a lot more than this civilized one.
“Sure,” I said.
He looked relieved.
“Another one?” I asked, taking his glass. “Yes.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I was seated across from my boss at a way-too- intimate high-top table tucked into a very dark corner.
Our differences were impossible to ignore. He was in designer duds. I was dressed like a cheap cowgirl. He’d ordered the filet, and I was dining on my employee discount hamburger.
“What’s going on? You’re not here to get me fired, are you?” I cut my burger in half so I could save one portion for lunch tomorrow.
He didn’t crack a smile. If anything he looked even more serious. “How many jobs do you need?” he asked.
“As many as it takes.”
“Does it have something to do with your family emergency?”
I chose to take a bite of burger rather than answer him. Dominic’s nostrils flared, and he was back to glaring at me. This at least felt normal.
“Harry seemed to think that there’s something between us.” He said the words slowly and to the steak in front of him rather than to my face.
“Something besides a murderous rage?” I clarified.
He did look at me then. “He thinks that we’re attracted to each other.” I didn’t say anything.
It was a self-preservation thing. There was no way in hell that I’d admit to being attracted to the man.
“I don’t know how to talk about this without putting you in an awkward position,” he admitted.
Since when was Dominic Russo worried about making me feel awkward?
“Okay. Now you’re starting to worry me,” I announced. “How about just be honest? Spit it out. Rip off the bandage. We’re adults here on our own time.”
“Fine.” He took a breath and then looked me dead in the eye. “Are you attracted to me?”
I laughed.
He frowned. Fiercely.
“What?” I asked. “That’s a ridiculous question.” “Then give me a ridiculous answer,” he growled.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Dom. I’m physically attracted to you. I imagine most women and plenty of men are.”
He held up a bossy, obnoxious hand. “Don’t be flippant.” “What’s the problem?” I asked.
“I’m your boss.”
“Technically I have about a hundred bosses,” I corrected him. “It doesn’t matter. There’s a policy—”
“I know there’s a policy. Are you accusing me of violating it?”
“What? No.” He closed his eyes for a beat and then opened them again. “What I’m trying to say is I’m not willing to violate the policy.”
“Wait a second. Dom, are you saying you’re attracted to me?” I asked incredulously.
He glared at me. “You’re not stupid, Ally.” “Apparently I might be. Are you attracted to me?”
I held his gaze, and for the first time, saw the storm in those blue eyes.
He was fighting some kind of internal battle. “Dom?”
His jaw flexed twice before he answered. “I’m attracted to you, Ally.
Very attracted,” he said, his voice low and rough.
Oh, lord.
Sex hormones dumped into my bloodstream so quickly I felt lightheaded.
“Oh.” It was the only word I could get out as a wave of confusion and white-hot lust crushed me.
“Oh?” he repeated, looking annoyed.
“Give me a minute,” I told him. “I’m processing. I thought you hated me.”
“I told you before. I don’t hate you,” he said disdainfully. “I hate being attracted to you.”
And just like that those sex hormones turned into white-hot rage.
“You tracked me down to my third job to tell me you hate being attracted to me?” I said the words slowly, making sure I was reiterating his point with just the right amount of “you son of a bitch” in my tone.
“What I mean to say is nothing is going to happen between us.”
“You’re damn right nothing is going to happen, you cocky, imbecilic ass. You think I’m so desperate that I’d say yes to a quick hate-fuck? That my self-respect is so low I’d throw myself at someone who doesn’t deserve me?” I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to smash my burger in his face or stab him in the hand with a fork.
“Ally, you’re getting it wrong,” he said dryly. “I’m getting it wrong, or you’re saying it wrong?” He looked uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable.
“I just want to make it clear that I’m not going to get involved with you.”
The arrogance of this guy was almost laughable. I’d definitely go with the fork, I decided.
“First of all, boss. I decide who I get involved with. Not you. And right now, I’d rather sleep with literally any human in this bar than you. Dead last. That’s where you rank. Just because I found you physically attractive doesn’t mean I’d want to sleep with you.” I emphasized the past tense to drive my point home, ignoring the fact that that’s exactly what it had meant up until forty-five seconds ago when he opened his big, stupid mouth.
“Eat your dinner, Ally,” he said.
The look I shot him should have made his balls shrivel into raisins.
“Look,” I said. “You don’t get to be an asshole to my face when I’m on someone else’s clock. You can do it forty-odd hours a week at the office but not here.” I started to push my chair back, but he closed a hand over my wrist.
His grip felt like a shackle. A warm, hard, unbreakable shackle. And I
hated the fact that I liked it.
I stared down at the fingers ensnaring my wrist and felt like I’d entered another dimension where casual physical touch from a man who’d just insulted me on the basest level could render me speechless.
“Ally,” he said again. His voice was a rasp.
It was humiliating to know that the man could insult me to my face and my body would still want to see his naked. Had I lost my self-respect along with my life savings?
“This is coming out wrong,” he said.
“I’m not sure there’s a right way to tell someone that you’re attracted to them but the actual thought of sex with them makes you nauseated,” I shot back. “Are you the reincarnation of Mr. Darcy?”
His fingers squeezed harder.
“What I am fucking up over and over again is this: I want you to know that despite the fact that I find you interesting, intelligent, infuriating, and very, very attractive, I’m not going to pursue any kind of relationship with you. I want you to feel safe at work. I don’t want you to think that I’m going to drag you into a copy room and fuck you against office equipment. I don’t want coworkers whispering behind your back because you had the misfortune to catch my eye. I don’t want your reputation torn to shreds just because I wonder what you look like naked. And, yes, I do think about that. And, no, I shouldn’t be telling you that.”
He said all this without lessening the pressure of his fingers. As if the physical touch and the words melded into one message. Desire.
Fuck me against office equipment? I’d put that in the “Obsess About This Later” folder.
We were both quiet for a long beat. Him still gripping my wrist. Me still staring at him as if he’d just announced he had four testicles and dreamed of someday raising miniature donkeys.
“I wanted to clear the air,” he said, pressing on. “If Harry was picking up on something between us, then others will also. That’s not the kind of environment Label is. Not anymore.”
My brain was still wading through his speech. There was something real, something vulnerable in there, and I needed several uninterrupted days to process it all.
“Say something,” he demanded gruffly.
“Well, the first thing that comes to mind is: I look great naked,” I told him. The man put his head down on the table, and I almost laughed.
“Dammit. I knew it,” he said mournfully. “Did Dominic Russo just crack a joke?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Being around you feels like a never-ending boxing match, and I keep getting hit in the nuts.”
I did laugh then. “You are really, really bad at this, by the way.”
“Forgive me,” he said dryly as he lifted his head. “I’ve never had this conversation before.”
I flipped my hand over and wrapped my fingers around his wrist. “I think you’re making this more complicated than it has to be.”
“If anyone is overcomplicating things, it’s you,” he said, his tone grumpy.
“Stop being a baby. Just because we’re attracted to each other doesn’t mean we have to act on it. We’re adults, not oversexed teens with no comprehension of consequences. I’m not your type. You’re not my type— though in other circumstances, I’d be happy to broaden my horizons.”
He growled at that. I grinned.
“But neither one of us wants to rock the boat at work. I like my job. And I don’t fuck men who don’t like me. I’m not going to lock your office door and show you that I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, swiping his free hand over his face. He looked tortured. I liked it.
“Never in the history of my adult life have I been so overcome with lust that I couldn’t control myself. And I’m willing to bet the same is true for you,” I guessed.
“Don’t overestimate my control or underestimate your appeal, Ally.”
And just like that, I was back in Put Your Dick in Me Town. “Geez, Dom.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m not putting any responsibility on you. But I am infatuated with you, and I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about… things that I’m not going to repeat.”
I really, really, really wanted to know what kinds of things.
I took a breath and let it out slowly. “We want the same thing.”
His eyes narrowed, and I was overcome by a fantasy of him ripping open my cowgirl shirt and shoving my skirt up to my waist.
For one long second, I had the distinct feeling he was thinking the same thing. The temperature of the air between us rose to a smolder.
“What I mean to say,” I said, clearing my throat, “is that neither one of us is up for a workplace affair. So we won’t have one. It’s as simple as that.”
“What if I keep wearing vests?”
I leaned in, noticing his eyes drop to the first closed snap on my shirt. “Then I’ll just have to learn to control myself. And if you don’t stop wearing vests, I might start skipping underwear to work.”
He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard.
“Shut up and eat your dinner,” he said curtly, pulling his hand away.
I picked up my now-cold half burger. Not out of compliance, but because, after the tips, the food was one of the better parts of the job.
“How do you get home from here?” he asked.
“Train,” I said, taking a bite.
He reached for his wallet. “I’d prefer you take a cab.”
“No.”
“No?” His voice held disbelief, as if he couldn’t understand my defiance.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not your property, Dom. You don’t get to worry about me or play protector. You’re my boss, and I’m your employee. Unless you’re going to cover cab fares or Uber credits for all the admins, the answer is no. No special treatment. No extracurricular sex. No seduction attempts. No flirting. The air is cleared.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes filled with an inexplicable sadness. It’s what he wanted.
So why did he look so damn miserable?
