My gaze drifts downward and I notice the way he fills out those deep gray slacks, tight around his butt and thick thighs. I can see a resemblance in his and Beau’s build. Beau is big too, but I’ve never seen him fill out a pair of pants like this before.
Straight to hell, Charlie. Straight to hell.
When we reach the garage, he opens the door and ushers me in. It’s a nice garage, big enough to fit four cars, two wide and two deep, but he only has one parked in here. It’s black and expensive-looking. The car beeps to signal it’s unlocked as the garage opens, and I cringe when I realize he’s about to see my car.
He takes a moment to acknowledge my beat-up Subaru sedan with duct tape on the rearview mirror. His eyes linger for a moment on the embarrassing patch job.
“I’m not a bad driver,” I say. “My little sister and I were just playing red light fire drill and I got a little too excited.”
His brow creases as he stares at me curiously. “Red light fire drill?”
“Yeah. It’s where you pull up to a red light and someone yells ‘fire drill’ and everyone has to get out and run around the car and get back into their seat before it turns green. Well, this one time, I got out and ran straight into my mirror. It went flying and I had to crawl under a truck to get it.”
The wrinkle in his forehead deepens. “That sounds a little dangerous.”
“It was, but it was fun.” I wish he’d smile or something, but he’s so broody. Those intense dark green eyes stare at me without an ounce of humor. It makes me instantly uncomfortable.
“Can’t say I’ve ever played,” he replies, opening his driver side door.
“Yeah, well I guess you just play different games.”
His eyes flash in my direction, so I quickly duck into my seat to avoid that haunting gaze. When he climbs in next to me, I swear I catch a hint of a smile painted on his face before it vanishes.
The ride is silent, and I’m a little surprised to find out the location of this new building is actually downtown. It’s not really a new building at all but an old brick warehouse that looks to be under renovation. The windows and doors are covered with brown paper and there are scaffoldings and trucks parked around the exterior. Just above the door is the company logo, sleek in black iron, a circle with the letters, SPC.
Emerson parks the car on the opposite side of the street, away from the dirt and debris of the construction site. As we climb out of the car, I try to pull my skirt down a couple inches and cross my arms over my chest to hide the bra underneath.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
As soon as we shut the doors of the car, a tall blond man in dusty jeans and a tight flannel shirt exits the building and marches in our direction. He has a hard hat on his head and two in his hand. There’s a mildly disgruntled look on his face as he approaches us, but when he lifts his head and locks eyes with me, his expression suddenly changes. A smile stretches across his stubbled cheeks as his blue eyes skate up and down my body. When he turns his head, I spot a blond ponytail hanging under his hat, and when I get closer, I find myself staring at those chiseled cheekbones and full, pink lips. He’s freaking gorgeous.
“Well, hello there,” he chimes with his disarming gaze on me.
Emerson clears his throat, putting the attention back on him. “Drake, this is my new secretary, Charlotte Underwood. Charlotte, this is our general contractor, Drake Nielsen.”
“A new secretary,” Drake says with a sexy, low-tone drawl as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. There’s something strange about the way he says secretary, but I’m too hypnotized by his attention to pick out what it is.
“Drake,” Emerson snaps as if he’s scolding the man. Drake doesn’t even flinch, but he does give me a subtle wink. I finally realize, because my brain is moving a little slow with this Greek god staring at me like we’re about to fuck, that Drake thinks I am one of Emerson’s special secretaries.
And you know what? I don’t hate it.
I almost don’t want Emerson to correct him, but of course, he does.
“She’s my actual secretary, Drake. Knock it off.”
There’s a hint of disappointment on the contractor’s face as he lets my hand go. There must be some unwritten rule that people who know of and partake in the kinky stuff can be kinky and flirtatious around each other. But to the rest of us, they have to modify their behavior. Like we’re the muggles and they’re the wizards.
And right now, I hate being a muggle.
“That’s me,” I reply. “A boring secretary.” I twist my lips into a knot and do my best to look downhearted.