And I’m a lust-addled idiot because all I can think about is how much I want to kiss her. Taste her. Strip off her clothing and see her na**d for the first time.

My head is descending like I have no control over it, and she’s tilting her head back as if in waiting, the smile fading, her lips parting. Warning bells clang in my brain. What am I doing? I think I’m going to kiss her.

Yep, I’m definitely going to kiss her and find out what those delicious lips finally taste like. And when I finish kissing her, I’m going to press my face into her hair and breathe deep her addictive scent. Inhale it until it fills my lungs and makes my head spin. I can smell her now, her fragrance wrapping all around me, drugging me, and I close my eyes just as my mouth settles on hers.

The kiss is soft. Light. Simple. I’m testing her, testing myself. She doesn’t run, doesn’t so much as jerk in my hold. No, it’s worse. She should pull away from me and slap my face. Or at the very least, stomp on my foot, tell me I’m a bastard and that she quits. I’d let her go because it’s the right thing to do.

Pulling her into my arms and kissing her is the absolute wrong thing to do.

Instead, she sighs against my lips. The softest, sexiest little sound I think I’ve ever heard in my life and then her hands are smoothing up my chest, curving around my shoulders as she steps closer, clinging to me as if for dear life.

That’s it. The sign I’ve been looking for despite the flash warning repeating in my head:

Step away, step away, step the f**k away, asshole.

I ignore it. I can’t resist her. I don’t want to resist her. All those soft, delicious curves press against me, her br**sts to my chest, her legs tangling with mine. She’s taller with those fuck-me heels on and I’m tempted to slide my hands down, curve them around her ass and see what she might do.

With the way she’s responding to my mouth on hers, I have a feeling she’d like it.

The kiss is still simple, the both of us seem to be waiting for the other to make the first move. I revel in the simplicity for a minute, wanting to etch this moment into my mind, so I don’t ever forget it. The way she feels in my arms. The little sounds she makes in the back of her throat, a combination of sighs and whimpers that are beyond arousing. She tastes like mint, sweet and fresh, and I slant my head, parting my lips, ready to take it deeper.

But unbelievably, she beats me to the punch, opening to me as her tongue darts out for a tentative lick against mine—a wicked little flick that sends my body into overdrive, my c**k straining against my trousers. Fuck, I want her. I could drown in her.

I’m done for.

Chapter Five

Bryn

OH GOD, HE’S kissing me. Really kissing me, our tongues doing a delicate dance that gets deeper, wetter, hotter with every second that passes. I clutch at him, slide my hands from his shoulders to circle around his neck, one hand in the thick, soft hair at his nape, holding him to me.

His muscular arms tighten around my waist, like steel bands holding me close and my skin tingles at the possessive way he touches me, kisses me. This is exactly what I’ve been wanting for months, since I first started working with Matt. When he walked into my life and pretty much saved it, so I didn’t have to pack my bags and return to Cactus, totally ashamed and a complete failure, just like everyone thought I would be.

I’ve fought this dizzying attraction for Matt for what feels like forever, especially this last week, and I think he has too. Over dinner, the connection only seemed to grow, like a tangible presence.

Why else would he so readily kiss me? I know it was an accident, us running into each other, but it feels so natural, being in his arms. He couldn’t deny he was attracted to me any longer and now, alone in the dark, hushed, quality of the office, with no one else close by, we can finally give in to our attraction and take it a step further.

“Bryn.” His voice is agonized, sending shivers down my spine when he whispers against my lips. “We shouldn’t do this,” he says, breaking our kiss completely.

I stroke the back of his head, still lost in the lingering sensation of his mouth moving over mine. God, the man can kiss. I’m thankful he’s got a hold of me, or I’d probably melt onto the floor. What did he say again? “Wait . . . what?”

“We shouldn’t do this,” he repeats, pressing his lips to the spot where my pulse throbs wildly at my neck before he withdraws the slightest bit, putting distance between us.

Staring up at him, I realize he’s dead serious. His expression is somber, his eyes almost . . . pained. He’s putting a stop to this.

And making me feel like a humiliated fool.

“Fine.” I take a deep breath and drop my hands from where I gripped his neck. “You’re right. We should definitely not do this.”

I sound like every silly romance I love to read when I’m not working like a dog. And I’m so pitiful it’s embarrassing.

“I’m—sorry, Bryn. I got carried away.” He lets go of me, and I step backward, feeling bereft without being in his embrace.

“I’m sorry too.” I smooth my hand over my hair, then jerk my top back into place, running my hands over my skirt. My hands are shaking, and I release another shuddery exhale, desperate to get myself back together and quick.

No way do I want him to see how much he affects me, especially after he so soundly rejected me.

He bends down and snatches his wallet from the floor, flipping it back open and peeling out two twenty-dollar bills from within. “Is this enough?”

“For what?” My mind races. What is he giving me money for? He better not be paying me off because of the stupid kiss. And if he thinks my lips are only worth forty dollars, then I’m completely insulted.

“For the dinner you paid for,” he says, his voice gentle as he holds the twenties out toward me. “Is it enough?”

“It’s fine,” I snap, snatching the money from his fingers and clutching it tight in my fist. I feel so incredibly stupid I don’t know what else to say.

So I say nothing at all. Just turn my back on him, grab my purse from where I left it on the corner of my desk and flee the building, never once looking over my shoulder. I don’t even notice the tears streaming down my cheeks until I’m in my car, sitting in the driver’s seat and desperately trying to stab my key in the ignition yet somehow missing every single time.

I burst out crying in earnest, my vision blurring, and finally get the key in. I turn it, the engine starting with its usual dependable, gentle roar. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let the tears fall silently. No sobbing, no cursing, no shaking my fist at myself or the man who kissed me so sweetly, so passionately, I don’t know if I’ll ever experience another kiss like it again.

Bright headlights shine on me every time a vehicle passes, and I wince, lifting my head. I swipe at the tears dampening my cheeks, blowing out a frustrated breath. I need to get out of here. Sitting around crying and feeling sorry for myself is not the way to handle this. I’ve always been a pull-myself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of girl. It’s the Texan in me; the tough take-no-prisoners attitude my grandma’s instilled in me ever since I was a little girl.

A pervert chases after me and tries to abduct me? No problem, spit in his eye. My old boss tries to get in my pants? No worries, just quit. A variety of Hollywood jerks proposition me for a blowjob?

Yeah. Just walk. Find another job. Find another boss, another man with too much power who knows how to quietly devastate me with just a look. A touch. A kiss.

Throwing my car into reverse, I back out of the parking lot and drive out of there so fast, my tires spin, spitting up gravel. Determination steels my spine, fuels my anger. I refuse to let someone make me feel weak all because I’m a woman. I keep doing that. It’s been a pattern my entire life. I change my look to stop men from seeing a pretty face, then let myself be convinced it would be smart to go back to my usual ways and of course, I get in trouble. But forget it.

No man has ever held me down.

Ever.

“OH MY GOD, what happened to you?”

I glance up from the letter I’m typing to find Ivy standing in front of my desk, her expression one of pure disappointment mixed with horror. Straightening my shoulders, I smile at her, going for subdued.

“Whatever do you mean?” I ask calmly. It’s only been a few days since I last saw her. I know she’s going to give me an earful.

She waves a hand at me, her gaze drinking me in as her nose wrinkles. “The tan-colored everything—it’s back. And your hair is in a bun, and you’re not wearing any makeup. Why? What happened? I thought you bought yourself a new wardrobe. In fact, I know you did—I was with you.”

It’s pointless to try and make a man fall for me who so very clearly doesn’t want to. Despite the devastating kiss, the intimate conversation and his hot eyes drinking me in every chance he could get, I needed to go back to my original look. I wear the color beige like a suit of armor. Protecting my heart from failure.

“I did. I wore my new clothes, tried my best to impress Matt and it backfired. It was an utter failure.” Reaching beneath my desk, I pull out the bag that contains the gorgeous dress Ivy so generously bought me to wear for tomorrow. “I’m returning this to you. I appreciate the gesture but I won’t be needing it after all.”

Ivy takes the bag as if in a daze, opening it to peek inside before she turns a determined glare on me. “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t you dare return this to me because you think I spent too much money on it. This is my gift to you.”

“No offense, but I don’t want it.” I sniff delicately, hoping she’ll forgive me but God, I’m still just so angry at Matthew-the-jerkwad DeLuca. “There’s no point in wearing it, so I’m giving it back to you. Hopefully you can still return it to the store.”

“What? Why is there no point in wearing it? What happened?” Ivy gapes at me.

I flick my head in the direction of Matt’s closed office door. He’s kept it closed all day, hardly talking to me beyond the occasional request, said in a painfully polite voice. I’m just as bad, replying with a crisp “yes, sir” every time he asks me to do something for him, earning an irritated look in return.

“What did he do?” Ivy’s voice drops to a whisper.

Shaking my head, I roll my eyes and it sort of hurts. Probably has something to do with my hair scraped into a bun so tight I swear it’s pulling on my entire face. Who needs a facelift when you give yourself a hairdo like this? “I can’t talk about it here. Not now.”

“I refuse to accept this.” Ivy deposits the bag on top of my desk, her expression practically daring me to deny her. “You’re wearing it tomorrow night whether you like it or not.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, you know.” I take the bag and throw it back under the desk, knowing I just totally wrinkled the dress. I’m going to have to iron the crap out of that thing tonight if I’m really going to wear it tomorrow. “The whole reason for you buying it was to impress a certain someone who, trust me, won’t be impressed whatsoever.”

“You’re talking in circles and I can’t stand it.” Ivy starts for the door, waving her hand. “Come with me.”

I follow her outside, the sun bright and warm on my chilled skin as she leads me behind the building. She turns to face me, and I cross my arms, feeling defensive. The last thing I want to do is argue with my new friend, but I also really don’t want to admit to her what happened between Matt and me last night.

It’s embarrassing.

“Give me all the details. Tell me what that stupid Matt did to you to make you revert to your old ways.” A shudder passes over Ivy. “I hate the beige, I hope you know.”

I do too, but I don’t admit it. Better to act like this is more my style and hide behind it than reveal that I actually can look . . . pretty without the beige. I wear it like armor, fighting against all my vulnerabilities. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’ll only be between me and you. Oh, and Marina. She’ll want to know what’s going on,” Ivy says.

“You can’t tell Archer. And Marina can’t tell Gage. This is our little secret,” I say, pointing my finger at her.

“I’ll keep my lips shut. Scout’s honor.” She holds up three fingers, then starts giggling, which makes me even more nervous.

“I can’t take you seriously if you’re laughing,” I tell her, exasperated as hell. If Matt finds out I’m outside talking to Ivy, he might get mad. He’s a ball of nerves today what with everything finally happening tomorrow. Tense and stressed and the bad, weird vibes going on between us aren’t helping matters any.

“I’m not laughing about this. I told Matt the same thing, scout’s honor, when he was telling me something last week.” She frowns, tilts her head. “I can’t believe it’s only been a week since Matt and I had that conversation. A lot has happened since then.”

“What conversation? What did he tell you?” I’m totally testing her. If she tells me what he said there is no way I’m confessing to her what happened last night.

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m not falling for that.” She smiles. Dang, she’s good. “So spill.”

I explain everything. How Matt seemed interested since I ditched the beige. That I stayed last night and brought him dinner, which we ate together. How I was about to leave when we ran into each other and the next thing I knew, we were kissing.

And it was amazing.

“Then it was over. He said we shouldn’t be doing this, gave me forty bucks and sent me on my way,” I finished miserably.