Sizzling desire and office politics don't mix ... do they?
Forensic specialist Stevie Daniels will be day-shift supervisor. She's earned that promotion. But first, her boss has tasked her with digging up dirt on Vin Vasher, the rebellious night-shif...
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Inside her basic, cramped kitchen, Stevie listened to the TV commentators gush over the latest Rose Bowl float. Maybe she could catch the impressive float later in the rebroadcast, but at the moment pulling the pan of cornbread from the oven was more important. The aroma of the earthy bread whirled from the oven straight into her nose.
"Mmm."
Under the warm fluorescent lights, the golden crust glistened, thanks to the sprinkling of turbinado sugar. Her mouth watered for a thick piece topped with a pad of melting butter, but she'd have to wait. Setting the pan down, she closed the oven door and grabbed the wooden spoon, plunging it into the steaming pot of chicken tortilla soup. Bite-size pieces of red and green peppers, black beans, and chicken billowed to the surface as she weaved figure eights through the rojo-tinged broth.
A sample tasting. A few more shakes of chipotle powder. A good stir and she tasted it again. "Perfecto."
With the meal ready, she scurried about the apartment wrangling journals into one stack and shoving papers into the desk drawer. All her tidying up couldn't hush her internal fretting over three looming events.
Introducing Vince to Vicky later that day.
The need to resume her job search in earnest, or face the wrath of Vicky.
And the one causing the most butterfly bullets to ricochet around her gut—getting down and dirty with Vince.
A week ago, he'd thrilled her with his offer to reciprocate the deed of oral sex, albeit somewhat overdue. Still, his proposition indicated a strong desire to dive deeper into the intimate waters with her. Had she found a paramour worthy enough to relax her tight defenses? He did push many of the right buttons, so why not give it a go?
But first, she'd have to have a talk with him. An uncomfortable heart-to-heart, because the Professor still belonged to the card-carrying XY species. The testosterone-heavy gender tended to be very goal orientated. When getting from point A to B, their natural M.O. consisted of taking the shortest route. Then there was the porn industry, reinforcing the misconception that if a man rubbed fast enough and hard enough, he could get any female to orgasm.
Stevie hugged a throw pillow. This time, she wouldn't have the cover of darkness while broaching the topic again with him. It would be in broad daylight and a matter of finding the right words without discouraging him.
The doorbell chimed. Shoot. He'd made good time. She tossed the pillow on the sofa, lowered the TV volume, and went to open the door.
"Happy New Year," lover boy said, cradling a bottle of champagne.
"And to you." They exchanged a quick kiss as he entered, and she closed the door behind him. "You're in a good mood despite getting the most gruesome case of the month."
"Yeah." He toed off his shoes. "What a way to end the year."
