But I wouldn’t feel right about that and besides they’d figure me out. They always do. I don’t like liars. My father is a consummate one. Seeing how his lies always ended up getting him in trouble, I purposely keep myself on the straight and narrow. I’m brutally honest. Always.

Archer knows it too, that motherfucker. It was like he set that entire deal up. He knew I was interested in Bryn and he knew she would tempt me. Always one step ahead, that guy.

The field employees start to slowly trickle in, and my phone starts blowing up with emails, text messages, and phone calls. The workday has officially kicked off, so I decide to pack it in and reluctantly head for the office. I know Bryn’s there; I see her car in the parking lot. As I walk through the vineyard, I go over the various scenarios that could be awaiting me within the building:

Bryn, wearing her hair down and clad in some sort of sexy skirt and button-up shirt combo with her cl**vage on display.

Or Bryn, back to normal with her hair pulled into a tight bun and the baggy beige ensemble I’ve come to depend on.

Worse, maybe there will be a combo Bryn sitting behind her desk: hair down, beige pants and top on, those pretty eyes enhanced with cosmetics, all of it designed to drive me absolutely wild with lust. That Bryn just might do me in—every facet of her on display, making me want her.

Clearly I have too much time on my hands if I’m coming up with all of these ridiculous thoughts. I need to focus on the most important task at hand. Today’s Monday and the grand reopening is Friday. There’s still so much to do for this giant event it’s not even funny.

And Bryn is pretty much handling everything—consulting me along the way, of course.

Hell.

I enter the building, the cool air greeting me. It’s blessedly silent, and I walk down the hall toward my office, nerves eating at my gut as I roll up first one sleeve, then the other of my navy blue button-down. I’m wearing jeans and my work boots, thankful for the casual atmosphere. Every time I have to put on a monkey suit, I feel ridiculous, uncomfortable.

So not my thing.

I enter the outer office where Bryn’s desk is and stop short, my eyes widening at the sight before me. It’s Bryn, bent over the file cabinet that sits just behind her desk, her very fine ass waving in the air as she searches through the files.

The fact that I can actually see the shape of her ass tells me she’s wearing something completely different than usual. Second clue, there’s not a hint of beige or tan or khaki in sight.

The dress is black, with a delicate floral print in hints of green and turquoise. The flared skirt stops just above her knee, which means if she was bent over the cabinet much farther, I’d be looking at her panties.

Just the word panties makes my entire body twitch in anticipation. Those long, bare legs make my gut twist and her scent washes over me, sweet and so uniquely Bryn I’m afraid I might do something f**king crazy.

Like sneak up on her, wrap my hands around her waist and tug her close. Let her feel exactly what she does to me.

Deciding I shouldn’t surprise her, I clear my throat, letting her know I’ve arrived. A little gasp escapes her and she stands up straight, pushing the drawer in with a loud slam as she turns—in black high-heeled shoes that fuel all sorts of instant fantasies—to face me.

“Matt! Um, Mr. DeLuca, good morning.” She runs her hands down the front of her dress, her expression self-conscious, her movements agitated.

The dress fits her like a dream. I can see the shape of her full breasts, the nip in her waist, the flare of her hips. Her arms are completely exposed, slender and graceful and she lifts one, smoothing her elegant hand over her hair in a most definite nervous gesture.

Her hair just so happens to be pulled back but not like usual. It’s in a loose braid, and a few wisps curl around her face, emphasizing the exotic slant of cheekbones I’ve never noticed before.

Good God, my assistant is smoking-ass hot.

“Morning,” I say, clearing my throat, but the word comes out more like a strangled croak. “You look . . . ah . . . nice.”

She darts behind her desk and lands in her chair, pulling it up close, almost like she’s using her desk as some sort of protective shield. Too late, I’ve already seen her, and I wholeheartedly approve. “Thank you.”

I don’t know what else to say. All sorts of questions are running through my brain. Like, What happened? Why did you go shopping with Ivy and Marina? What made you decide to give up beige? Is this a temporary thing or permanent, because I don’t know if my heart can take it, seeing you like this every single day.

Instead, I go for the safe and boring. It’s easier. Less risky.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” I slowly approach her desk, noticing the way her fingers shake slightly when she picks up a pile of paper, straightens it and then puts it to the side.

Interesting.

“I did, thank you. How about you?” She picks up a pen and taps it against the edge of her pursed lips. Lips covered by a slick of pale peach gloss, I might add.

It was f**king great. I went and golfed with my best friends, we made a new bet that I can’t touch any woman—including you—for the next forty-five days and then I saw a picture of you and your new look. I jerked off twice, not that seeing your photo with all that sexy-as-fuck hair is related—no, not at all. Then I come to work and see you like this, and all I can think about is how much I want to get my hands on you. All over you.

“It was fine,” I answer, stopping just in front of her desk. She looks up at me, and my gaze drops to the elegant line of her neck, her exposed collarbone. She’s wearing a delicate gold necklace with a little charm dangling from it. I can’t quite tell what it is.

All I know is I want to f**king kiss her right there, where her skin is probably soft and sweet and scented. Follow the thin, tempting line of the necklace, kiss her all around her neck, her nape, her collarbone. Lick and nibble and make her moan.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do for you this morning?”

Her sweet, sultry and slightly trembling voice knocks me from my thoughts and turns them even dirtier, if that’s possible.

Why yes, Miss James. I’d love it if you could perch your pretty little ass right on the edge of your desk, slowly lift your skirt and spread your legs so I can see what you’re hiding under there. Maybe lick your peach glossed lips and say something subtly filthy like, “I’ve got something I’d like you to do, Mr. DeLuca. How about . . . me?”

I blink, hard. Twice. Trying to push the image of Bryn inviting me to f**k her from my head, but it’s just no use. She’s all I can see. Her hands braced behind her on the desk, her spread legs dangling, the skirt of her dress bunched around her waist. I can imagine her wearing skimpy black lace panties, panties I can see right through.

She f**king works for you! Get your mind out of the gutter.

Damn, the state board of equalization could have a field day with me. I’m a pervert of the highest degree.

“Let me make a few calls and check my emails. I’m sure there’s plenty I’ll need you to do today, like usual. This week is going to be a busy one,” I say, my voice brusque as I turn away from her desk and head toward my office door. “You’ll probably need to work late all week, just warning you.”

That statement conjures up more images, ones I hurriedly push out my brain so they don’t clog it all up and distract me again.

“I don’t mind,” she calls after me. “I have a list of things I’m going to follow up on. I’m calling the caterer right now because there are still a few unresolved items, including the final headcount for the party Friday night. I’ll come see you in a bit so we can go over everything.”

“Sounds good,” I say as I open my office door and slam it shut behind me.

My breathing erratic like I just ran around the bases at top speed, I collapse in my chair. Exhaling loudly, I lean my head against the back of it, staring at the ceiling. Bryn’s pretty face, those sexy glossed lips still forefront in my mind.

Holy hell. She looks freaking amazing. Combine all that with her heady scent, her sensible work ethic, that curvy figure, her dependability, those damn black shoes that are giving me heart palpitations, and I’m a dead man.

Forty-three days, and I can’t touch a single woman, or I risk a million-dollar-plus loss. And it’s not that I need the money, it’s the principle of the matter. I won the initial bet fair and square. Now those two so-called friends of mine have changed it up and put me in a bind.

It’s my own damn fault though. I’m the one who agreed to it in the first place.

Worse? All I can think about is touching a woman. Well, a particular one. Sitting a few feet away from me. The same woman who just so happens to work for me.

And the only person I can blame is myself.

Bryn

MATT SLAMS HIS office door with a finality that makes me jump in my chair. My heart racing, I rest my hand over my chest, feel it flutter against my palm like the furiously fast wings of a hummingbird. I hadn’t expected him to walk inside at that particular moment—with my butt in the air. I was searching through the file cabinet looking for an invoice I know I paid after just receiving a past due notice in the weekend’s mail.

So embarrassing, him catching me like that. God.

I found the paid bill. Had started ruffling around looking for something else, I can’t even remember what, when I heard him clear his throat. God, he’d surprised me. I’d nearly leapt out of my skin when I turned to find him standing there, looking as gorgeous as can be. Per his usual, if I’m being truthful.

Not the way I wanted to make an impression. No, I’d planned on sitting behind my desk when I first saw him this morning. Calm, cool, and efficient, offering a bright “good morning” with an equally bright smile. Watch him stare at me in total shock.

Well, I got the shocked stare, that was for sure. But I also noticed how his gaze had been zeroed in on my backside when I was bent over before it rose quickly to meet my eyes. He didn’t say anything about my change in appearance beyond the standard “you look nice.”

Nice.

How boring is that? Then he went on to ask if I had a nice weekend too, like nothing had changed, nothing was different. Not that I want him to be a slobbering idiot like my creeper old boss. But I thought I’d at least thoroughly impress Matt with the dress, the hair, the makeup, and the shoes.

God, the shoes. They’re pinching my toes and I don’t think I’ve been here even an hour.

I’d expected at least a “you look pretty” comment or something. Anything really.

But it was the same old thing. Back to work. Gotta keep on it, we’re so busy, and I need you to work late, Miss James, blah, blah, blah. Just like his usual self.

Instead of disappointment, I should be glad. I should be relieved and thankful he didn’t leer at me and tell me how sexy I looked and could he get a hand up my skirt or anything like that. My old boss spoke to me like that all the time. He literally asked if he could feel up my “titties” one afternoon. I really hate that word. I’d worked as his receptionist for two whole weeks when he asked that particular question.

I’d been so surprised I’d politely told him, “I don’t think so.”

I don’t think so. I’d been so naive and shocked, I’d even giggled when I said it, which probably gave him the wrong idea.

That I’d willingly let him kiss me and touch my so-called titties within two months of that first request probably gave him the wrong idea too.

Sighing, I rub my forehead, run my hand over my hair. I’d planned on wearing it down and decided at the last minute I couldn’t do it. The dress, the makeup, and the shoes were bad enough. The hair, my one crowning glory as my grandma always called it, would’ve made it more than obvious.

My daily appearance as the drab, neutral Miss James is a complete facade. How I’m dressed at this very moment, I’m more like my old, sexy, too-pretty-for-her-own-good Bryn self.

Shopping with Ivy and Marina had been so much fun though. Those girls ran me ragged all Saturday afternoon and into the evening. That little pregnant and supposedly exhausted Ivy was the fastest of us all, too. She pulled out so many things for me to try on, I’d been stuck in one dressing room after another, all over downtown St. Helena.

I’d broken out the credit card and bought a few new pieces of clothing for work, this dress being one of them. Then they took me to a salon, and I got my hair cut. I can’t remember the last time I had it trimmed, and it felt so good to have it professionally shaped and styled, some of that heavy weight cut off since my hair is so thick.

When they offered the free makeover, I decided why not. What could it hurt? Not that I don’t know how to apply makeup. I have an entire box of the stuff at home, stuffed under the sink. I haven’t busted it out once since I arrived in St. Helena. I was a new person and this version of Bryn James didn’t wear makeup.

The makeup artist was good and Ivy and Marina were beside themselves when it was all said and done. The new hair, the new face—they couldn’t stop going on about how fabulous I looked.

Or how fabulous they thought Matt would find me.

Those words made me nervous. I wasn’t doing this just to get a reaction out of Matt. I also did it for me. To bond with these two women who felt like they could be true friends. Had I ever really had friends? When I was little, yes, I had a bunch of them. I ran around with a group of kids who lived in the trailer park with me. But as I got older, filled out and got curves, the boys started paying attention to me in a different way.

And the girls didn’t really like me anymore.