Live, Laugh, Loathe

Chapter 6: Drew

It's been two weeks, and a teeny, tiny, small part of me feels bad for Damon.

Even though he is massively disorganized and needs to be handheld regarding his schedule, he does know what he is doing. And as a result, the guy works a minimum of sixty-hour weeks.

If he's lucky.

But that's where my pity ends because the guy can't say a single nice thing to me. If he had a gun to his head, I don't think he could have come up with one compliment about me to save his life.

Yesterday, I saved his ass during a meeting when he started looking for a specific number regarding a project and couldn't locate it. Nicely and without disrupting him, I slid him a sticky note with the number on it. He couldn't even be bothered to thank me after the meeting concluded.

Not only that, but he seems incapable of holding a conversation with me for longer than two minutes. When we end up discussing work for longer than ten seconds, his eyes are anywhere but on my face, or whatever it is that I'm showing him. It's juvenile. Because I know. I know. He's still pissed that I threw a drink in his face and 'don't remember him'.

How do I know?

Well, on five separate occasions, I caught him looking at me weirdly, opening his mouth to say something, then dropping it. And then he mumbled to himself and ignored me for the rest of the day.

What a man-child.

And that's not even the worst part! No, the worst is that somehow, we're both still attracted to each other.

I've stopped myself from looking at his ass at least twice every day, and I've caught him looking at mine at least as many times. Sometimes during meetings, I'll brush past him, maybe on purpose, and watch him flush along his neckline and subtly adjust himself in his fucking perfect pants. And then, of course, because my body is a traitor, it reacts to the fact that he's affected, and I spend the rest of the meeting as turned on as he is. It's not healthy.

But I need this job, so if it means I spend most of my days annoyingly turned on by my boss, then so be it. But I'll damn well make sure he suffers along with me.

So today, I came dressed to kill.

I'm not proud of it, but this man infuriates me so much that I don't care.

He's already at his desk when I get in. With his coffee in hand, I enter his office and am immediately rewarded with his reaction. His gaze starts from my feet and slowly drags up my body before snagging at my chest. His fists clench, and I can almost hear his teeth grinding. Quite deliberately, I lean forward more than usual to set his coffee in front of him, and he gets a front-row view down my top. Without saying a damn thing, I turn and walk out. And I swear on my life I hear him groan when he sees my ass. He can't see my face, but I'm wearing the smuggest fucking grin of my life.

What am I wearing, you ask?

Picture this. High-waisted fire engine red pants that hug my ass and waist like a second skin. Black Louboutin heels that make my already nice ass even perkier. On top, I'm wearing a loose white silk tank tucked into my pants, emphasizing my waist and decent-sized boobs. And when I lean over? You get the perfect view of my black La Perla balconette.

Did I possibly go out and purchase each item on my limited budget to drive my boss crazy?

Maybe.

BUT. Before you judge me, everything was on sale. And the shoes are technically from an ex-girlfriend who was trying to win me back.

When I sneak a glance behind me, I'm rewarded with the view of him sitting there, looking absolutely tortured. I feel victorious for precisely one second until his gaze shifts, and he locks eyes with me. I can see the exact moment he realizes that this was all deliberate. I can't suppress the shiver of anticipation that runs up my spine as his expression turns and his eyes glint with purpose. Ruh-roh.