Page 12 of The Substitute
I admit, I always feel confident in whatever I’m wearing—it’s just who I am as a person—but wearing these new clothes gives me a boost that feels fantastic.
It’s just before eight when I take the elevator up to Derek’s office. I walk through the door and round the desk to set my bag down when I hear his hard voice behind me.
“Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Three
Derek
The weekend was long. I worked and did my best to keep busy, but I kept thinking about a certain assistant who had suddenly taken up room in my mind. I don’t know what intrigues me about her. Her confidence? The way my brash personality doesn’t seem to get under her skin?
That bloody mouth that just begs for my cock?
I swear at myself, staring out the window at the Monday morning view of Seattle. She should be here any minute, and I’m much too excited about that.
Yet I’m not willing to call and have her replaced. I don’t want to drive her away.
“Buggering masochist, that’s what you are,” I mutter to myself just as I hear the outer door open.
I take one long, slow breath and then cross to the open door, where I see a woman with her back to me, setting her bag on the desk.
She’s in a dress, her hair is blonder than Maya’s, and I’m immediately irritated.
“Who the hell are you? I didn’t ask for a new assistant.”
The woman turns, and wide, blue-gray eyes stare up at me, her mouth forming a tiny O. My dick more than twitches at the sight before me.
“Maya?”
“Good morning,” she says with a smile. She has makeup on this morning, including lipstick, and that green dress hugs her in all the right places.
The only thing that would make her more alluring would be if she was in high heels. It’s a good thing she isn’t because I’d take her right there on that desk if she were.
“Did you have a good weekend?” she asks, moving past me into my office. “Sorry, can we chat in here? I need coffee.”
“We’re not going to chat.”
“Well, we’ll have to talk about what’s on the docket for today at some point,” she says reasonably, popping a coffee pod into the machine and pulling out the bottle of creamer she stowed in the small fridge last week. “Do you want some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you even drink coffee?” she asks with a frown as she doctors her mug the way she likes it.
“Rarely. I prefer tea.”
“Oh, right,” she replies and takes her first sip. Her eyes close, and she hums low in her throat. I have to grit my teeth so I don’t do something stupid like push my hands into that gorgeous blond—blonder than Friday—hair and kiss the shite out of her. “That makes sense.”
“What does?”
“The tea thing,” she says with a grin. “You’re British. The accent gives you away.”
I can’t help but smirk at that, and her blue-gray eyes widen.
“You can smile. I thought maybe you had a condition or syndrome that made it so you couldn’t do that.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?”
“Oh, sure.” She shrugs a shoulder. “What part of Britain are you from?”