Romancing my Boss

Chapter 17

The blatant provocation sparked an infernal fire, stoking the already highly flammable charge thrumming through my veins into a delicious burn that seared its way through every inch of my body.

Unable to help myself, I had to taunt him back, to deliver a scathing volley sure to leave him reeling.

"I could tell you with...detail. But it would spoil the surprise. And we wouldn't want that now, would we?" The low purr emerged smoldering from somewhere primal in my depths.

"We wouldn't?" Max said, crossing his arms, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and intrigue.

"Of course not. After all, allowing a lady to retain some mysteries is half the delight...before," I said in the most seductive voice possible, letting the insinuation hang tremulously between us, heavy as a velvet curtain swaying in anticipation. Take that, Mr. Smugpants.

"Before what?" he asked, his tone dropping a degree lower, as his arms crossed over his chest.

I just shrugged innocently, a coy smile playing on my lips.

"Ms. Bennett, you were in the mi--" I cut him off purposefully, knowing how much he loathed interruptions.

"We are here! Home sweet home."

Just to push my luck a tad more, I purposely threw myself across his side of the car, swung the door open, and pretty much crawled my way on top of him to exit the vehicle. It earned me a dark menacing growl, but I couldn't resist the temptation to provoke him further.

As I straightened up and smoothed out my clothes, I turned to face him, my gaze dancing with mischief. "Well, darling, a lady must always leave a gentleman wanting more, mustn't she?"

Max's eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw clenching as if he were fighting back a retort. But then, to my delight, a slow smirk curved his lips, a daring glint in his gaze.

"Touché, Ms. Bennett," he said, his voice low and husky. "But remember, I'm not one to be easily bested."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of underestimating you, Mr. Pemberton," I replied with a playful wink, knowing full well that I was about to embark on a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a man who thrived on competitions.

As we made our way into my small apartment, the atmosphere crackled with tension, like a live wire begging to be touched. Max's intense gaze followed me, his eyes smoldering with a mixture of challenge and curiosity.

In that moment, I realized this interaction held a depth beyond the surface; it was a captivating game of wit, desire, and the potential for something more profound, something yet uncharted. Before he stepped inside, I placed a firm hand on his chest, asserting, "You don't have to, you know?"

His silent frown urged me to continue. "You don't have to stay; I appreciate your concern. But I'm feeling better now and plan to rest. So, if you'd rather go back to your own place..."

I meant it - inviting him in felt uncomfortably intimate, especially considering how blurred the lines between work and our peculiar game had become.

His hand landed on mine, gentle and sincere, his unwavering jade eyes revealinga depth of emotion. "I want to be here for you, with you," he said, his words sending tremors through me. It felt as though the world had paused in that moment.

I nodded solemnly, and Max's demeanor upon crossing the threshold was almost reverent, slowly walking in with each step, taking in my place. He ran his fingers along the spines of the books on my shelves, his eyes lingering on the framed photos scattered across the room, silently cataloging the snippets of my life.

I gave him a quick tour, pointing out the highlights - the cozy reading nook by the window, the well-loved couch that had seen better days, the tiny kitchenette that somehow managed to produce culinary magic.

My place must have looked tiny compared to his, but it was comfortable and had everything a rarity in Manhattan. Max only observed; he was quiet as if he was making mental notes of every little detail.

"Make yourself comfortable. I will take a shower first, and then you can do the same." I tried to sound nonchalant, but my mind was already conjuring up images of Max prowling around my sanctuary like a curious cat in a china shop.

The thought of him navigating my space, perhaps discovering my collection of embarrassing childhood photos or my secret stash of chocolate, had me feeling like a squirrel caught in headlights – equal parts nervous and amused.

I got out of the bathroom a towel in my head covered my soaking hair, feeling wonderfully refreshed after a long soak in the tub and changing into my comfy pink pajamas with the cute bunnies all over them.

I tiptoed into the bedroom, smiling at the sight of Max sprawled out on my bed, snoring lightly. He looked so peaceful, finally getting some much-needed rest after that grueling 24-hour vigil at the hospital. As I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, I couldn't help but marvel at how someone so infuriatingly arrogant could appear so vulnerable in sleep.

I gently took his italian loafers and pulled the comforter up over his broad shoulders, tucking him in. My heart did sommersalts at the sight of the perfectly esculpted statue of a man.

Before I could even realize what I was doing, I leaned in and planted a sinful kiss on his forehead. In that moment, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks - somewhere along the way, our heated banter and flirtatious games had morphed into something deeper, more profound. This brooding self-conceited man had wormed his way past my defenses and captured my heart, one smoldering glance and razor-sharp quip at a time.

With that subtle ache tucked in my chest, I turned off the lights and lay on the plush couch. I must have dozed off at some point because the next thing I knew, sunlight was streaming through the windows. After luxuriating in a long, languid full-body stretch, the recollection of the last two nights came flooding in.

Max. Our disastrous first fake date. The hospital vigil. The emotionally-charged aftermath as he'd insisted on coming over to...what, exactly? Provide comfort? Satisfy his curiosity about how I lived? I wasn't entirely sure anymore.

I padded toward the bedroom on sock feet to check on my unexpected houseguest, mentally preparing a scathing remark about his atrocious snoring.

Only to freeze in the doorway, my stomach plummeting straight through the floor...

There he sat, perfectly collected in the armchair drawn up right beside the rumpled bed...my notorious romantic gestures notebook, the one with my every thought and plan for the "Max-imal Charm Operation" dangling tauntingly from his grasp.

He raised one arrogant eyebrow so high it could have reached the moon, his green eyes practically sparking with undisguised glee, as if they were shouting,'You're so done!' With lazy confidence, as he skimmed through the mortifying pages.

My gaze fell first to the notebook's cringe-worthy contents - hastily scribbled notes and doodles galore, all half-baked grand romantic gestures and embarrassingly overwrought mush. Including...oh god, were those devil horns doodled onto a caricature of Max as a grumpy cat wearing a crown, with me adorned in superhero attire, wielding a stapler as my weapon of choice. Dammit!

I couldn't decide whether to be mortified or proud of my wine-induced creativity. Perhaps I should stick to verbal tirades next time.

I could feel the hot flush of utter humiliation prickling all along the surface of my skin.