Stay with Me Forever. Farrah Rochon

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       Chapter 2

      “Paxton? What are you doing here?”

      The shock on Sawyer Robertson’s face was laughable. If this were a laughing matter.

      It was not. There was nothing even remotely funny about this.

      The moment her eyes popped open that morning, Paxton knew she would live to regret not checking her phone to make sure she’d set the alarm. She and Belinda had stayed out at the bar much later than originally planned, getting the last bit of odds and ends done before tonight’s reopening. By the time she fell face-first onto her pillow, Paxton could barely move, let alone check the alarm on her phone. When her mother knocked on the door of her childhood bedroom that morning, Paxton discovered that she’d overslept by more than an hour.

      To make matters worse, there was only one bathroom in the single-wide trailer where she’d grown up, and, as per usual, she had to fight Belinda over bathroom time.

      Why did she allow her mother to talk her into staying at home instead of at Belle Maison? Not only was the quaint bed-and-breakfast closer to the Gauthier Law Firm, but Bolt-Myer would have footed the bill for it. Instead, Paxton had to make the twenty-minute drive in from Landreaux, which didn’t help with getting in to work on time.

      Not the best way to make a first impression.

      Paxton gestured to Sawyer’s desk. “I wanted that table,” she said. Then, remembering that she had to share this space with him for the next four weeks, she added in a more amiable tone, “Good morning.”

      “Good morning,” he replied. He stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Wait.” He picked up one of the documents from his desk and, pointing at it, said, “You’re P. Jones?”

      “Since birth,” Paxton answered.

      The combination of bafflement and amusement remained on his face as he tossed the papers back on the tabletop and rose from his chair. It was downright mystifying how this man could make a simple pair of gray slacks and a plain white button-down look so good. The unassuming clothes fit his tall, solid frame to perfection, the sleeves of his shirt folded back at the cuff, giving the barest glimpse of his powerful forearms.

      Sliding his hands into his pockets, he sauntered toward her.

      Paxton braced herself for the onslaught of longing that never failed to pummel her whenever she was around him.

       Breathe through it, girl.

      “This is a surprise,” Sawyer said, a hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I knew you worked for Bolt-Myer, but I never put two and two together. I assumed the P stood for Paul or Patrick.”

      “Oh, wow! Really?” she asked with exaggerated exuberance. “Your 1950s mentality makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

      He held his hands up. “The only thing the paperwork had on it was P. Jones, which you have to admit is a pretty common name. But I shouldn’t have automatically assumed it was male. If it makes you feel better, I’ll burn a couple of bras to make up for it.”

      She flat-out refused to smile at his quip.

      Sawyer crossed his arms over his chest, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. She had a thing for arms, and could remember all too well what it felt like to have his wrapped around her.

      He leaned his hip against the larger conference room table. The way the material pulled across his firm thigh made Paxton want to bend over and bite it. She resisted. Barely.

      “Now I understand why Bolt-Myer chose to send someone from their Little Rock offices instead of picking a project manager from Baton Rouge,” Sawyer said, completely unaware of her vampiric thoughts. “You probably know this area better than anyone in the entire company.”

      “Hmm.” Paxton did her best impersonation of Rodin’s The Thinker, dipping her head and fitting her fist strategically underneath her chin. “You know, there’s actually a chance that they chose me because I’m one of the best project managers they have.”

      “Come on, Paxton. I apologize, okay?”

      “And what are you apologizing for? Assuming I was a guy, or for insinuating that I’m here because it’s convenient instead of my skill to get the job done?”

      “For both,” he said. “Can’t you find it in your heart to give me a break?”

      “I’ll give you a break when you get out of my spot.”

      She set her briefcase on the larger conference table next to his leg. Which, yes, she still wanted to take a bite out of. Dammit.

      “How is this your spot?” Sawyer’s voice oozed incredulousness. “I was here first.”

      “No, I was here first. I claimed that spot on Friday when Carmen and I set up this conference room.”

      He looked over his shoulder at the folding table, then turned back to her, one corner of his mouth tipping upward in a self-satisfied grin. “Maybe you should have left a sign on it,” he said.

      Oh, how she wished she didn’t find the smugness on his face attractive as hell. Seriously, who in their right mind was turned on by cockiness?

      Anyone who encountered a cocky Sawyer Robertson.

      “Just think of how much confusion could have been avoided,” he continued. “I would have known that the P in P. Jones stood for Paxton. I wouldn’t have been surprised with the Queen of the Tardy Slip showing up late on the first day of the job. And I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to fall in love with this desk and its perfect view of the park.” He leaned forward, as if getting ready to impart a deep, dark secret. “I have to be honest, Pax. It really is the perfect view. You’ll be sorry you didn’t get here early enough to claim it.”

      She bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling. She’d prepared herself for this. She would not allow Sawyer’s teasing to throw her off her game. Because Lord knew if any man could fluster her, it was this one.

      “Don’t call me Pax,” she said.

      His brow arched. “So, it’s like that?”

      “Yes, it’s like that.” she said. She couldn’t handle him calling her by her nickname. It brought up too many memories of the numerous times he’d whispered it throughout that night they’d shared three years ago.

      Don’t think about that, Paxton silently chastised herself.

      “And bringing up that Queen of the Tardy Slip thing is just wrong,” she said.

      She’d earned that title back in high school, when she would routinely show up late for homeroom. Unlike most of her classmates who had the luxury of going to bed СКАЧАТЬ