One Hot December. Tiffany Reisz

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СКАЧАТЬ shrugged. “It’s all right. After you fucked me and dumped me, I called you every name in the book and invented a few of my own. You can call me a ‘maniac’ if you want.”

      Ian stood up immediately, walked—almost ran—to his office door, pulled her inside and shut the door behind them.

      “Can you keep your voice down?” he asked. “I’m trying to run a reputable company here.”

      “Then why did you hire me?” she asked.

      “I didn’t hire you. My father did.”

      “Oh, yeah. Then why haven’t you fired me?”

      “Because you’re very good at what you do.”

      “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said with a wink. Since she had nothing to lose anymore, she turned and sat down on the top of his desk.

      “I wasn’t talking about that night.”

      She crossed her legs, which was hard to do in loose canvas pants but she made it work.

      “Oh... ‘That Night.’ It has a name. I’m so good in bed our one night together has a name.”

      “That Stupid Night,” he said. “That Drunk Night.”

      “We weren’t drunk. You’d had two beers and I had two shots of whiskey and neither one of us is a lightweight. Don’t blame booze for your own bad decisions,” she said, raising her chin. “Or was it a bad decision? You tell me.”

      “Yes, it was. That I’m having this conversation with you is proof it was a bad decision. I don’t want to be having this conversation with any of my employees. I’m trying to be a good boss here. You’re not helping.”

      “How am I not helping?” she asked.

      “Because you don’t want me to be a good boss.”

      Flash almost felt bad for him. Almost. He was rich, he was handsome, he had been handed a high-paying job at a multimillion-dollar construction company with a bow tied around it, compliments of Daddy, so it was really hard for her to muster up any sympathy for the man. If he ever had a real problem in his life, it sure as hell wasn’t her.

      Then again he was also six-two, broad-shouldered, and annoyingly good in bed. She knew that for a fact thanks to “That Night” six months ago. And that meant she did feel for him a little bit. A little teeny tiny bit. Not that she would tell him that. He didn’t need to know she liked him. In fact, the less he knew about that, the better.

      “Poor Ian,” she said, shaking her head. “A victim of desire. You’re a Lifetime movie. Can we get Chris Hemsworth to play you? You two have the same hair. And the same shoulders. I remember because I’ve bitten them.”

      “You’ve bitten Chris Hemsworth’s shoulders?”

      “A lady never bites and tells. Too bad I’m not a lady.”

      “Flash.” He started to cross his arms over his chest but then seemingly thought better of it. Instead he stuffed his hands into his pockets, as if they’d be safer there.

      “Ian.”

      “You aren’t supposed to call me Ian. When you call me Ian people start to think we are more to each other than boss and employee.”

      “Once upon a time I hopped into your shower to wash your semen off my back after you put it there after some very intense doggy-style fucking. Now...tell me again how we’re just boss and employee.”

      “You,” he said.

      “Me.”

      “Why do I put up with this?” he asked. “Some kind of latent masochism, right?”

      “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” She ran her fingers up her short scarlet red hair, spiking it even higher. It was a classic punk look according to Suzette, the multi-pierced stylist who had talked Flash into trading in her long traditional locks for a short, wild razor cut two years ago. Long hair and construction sites didn’t go well together, anyway. Plus she liked scaring the old-timers at work, who still thought any woman with hair shorter than her shoulders was a lesbian or a communist. Not that she minded be mistaken for a lesbian. They were half-right, anyway. But a communist? Oh, please. Socialist, maybe, but a communist? Ridiculous.

      “What do you want?” he asked. “Please tell me and leave my office so I can, you know, do what I do.”

      “Masturbate while thinking about me?”

      “Flash, please.” He looked so wildly uncomfortable right now she almost laughed out loud. Not often a man as strong and as handsome and as together as Ian Asher looked self-conscious. It was kind of adorable. Which made it so much fun to torture him like this.

      “You know that’s not my real name. My name is Veronica. You can say it. You called me Veronica that night. I mean, ‘That Night,’” she said, putting the words into finger quotes.

      “Everyone calls you Flash.”

      “You called me Veronica when you were inside me.”

      “Flash, dammit...”

      “Dammit isn’t my name, either. Say my name and I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

      “Flash, I’m not—”

      “Say my name and I’ll tell you why I’m here. Then I will leave you in peace. Or in pieces depending on how much I’m annoying you today.”

      “Pieces is more accurate,” he said. “I need to be steel-reinforced around you. You are an earthquake.”

      “That’s the sexiest thing any man has ever said about me.”

      Ian removed his hands from his pockets, stood up to his full height and stepped forward, close enough to her that he could bend and kiss her if he wanted to. He must not have wanted to, unfortunately.

      “Veronica...” he said softly, so softly it was almost a whisper, and almost a whisper was exactly how he’d said her name that one stupid night. Her plan to torture him was backfiring. Now she remembered it all...everything she wanted to pretend meant nothing to her. No pretending when he said her name, no pretending when he looked at her like that.

      They’d gone out for drinks one night after work, about six of them, her and Ian and four other guys. The others were all family men, had to get home early. She and Ian had lingered at the bar, talking. But not about work, about art. His father had hired her, not him, and he hadn’t known that she’d learned to weld because she was a metal sculptor in her free time, an artist. He’d assumed she’d picked up the trade from her father the same way he’d gotten into the construction business. She’d shown him a picture on her phone of the six-foot-high climbing rosebush she’d welded out of copper and aluminum, and he’d called it a masterpiece. And then he’d called her a masterpiece. And before either of them knew it, they were kissing. They’d kissed all the way back to his place and all night and here she was, six months later, still thinking about it.

      “I quit,” she said.

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