That Boss Of Mine. Elizabeth Bevarly
hitched up her skirt in a manner that Wheeler simply could not ignore. And then she crossed one hand over her midsection, a gesture that thrust her plump breasts up even higher, in another manner that Wheeler simply could not ignore.
His secretary might not be the most graceful person on the planet when she moved, he thought, but when she was standing still like this, she had the most elegant lines he had ever seen on another human being. And when she started nibbling her lip with great concentration... Well. Suffice it to say that, even though he was eager to hear her take on his state of business affairs, Wheeler was in absolutely no hurry for her to finish up whatever she might be thinking about.
But after several minutes of contemplation, the only comment she offered was, “Huh. How about that? I don’t remember what I was going to say.”
Wheeler closed his eyes again, feeling his last drop of hope dry up. Ah, well. It had probably just been a fluke, anyway. Miss Finnegan didn’t come across as too awfully savvy when it came to the business world. Without thinking, he lifted his coffee to his lips for an idle sip, and, as utter bitterness filled his mouth, he nearly choked to death.
Miss Finnegan immediately jumped to his rescue, which was unfortunate, because in doing so, she instinctively placed her own cup of coffee on his drafting table—his tilted drafting table—and the entire contents tipped over onto his truly revolutionary idea.
Wheeler watched with an almost detached feeling of defeat as what had promised to be the end of his worries was slowly obscured by a growing puddle of brown. And then, when his design was completely covered by the stain, the coffee, as if not quite finished ruining his life, spilled off the table and ran into his lap. Somehow the entire episode just seemed perfectly appropriate, and the only reaction he felt was one of vindication.
“Oh, no,” Miss Finnegan groaned. “I can’t believe I did that. Here, I can fix it. I swear I can.”
Before he had a chance to object, she was fleeing his office, only to return within moments with a massive collection of paper towels. And although Wheeler’s primary concern was for the design on his table, Miss Finnegan, evidently, was far more preoccupied by her concern for his lap. In any event, that was where she immediately focused her attentions.
And, my, but her attentions were...thorough. Nobody had ever gone after Wheeler’s lap quite the way Audrey Finnegan did.
For a moment he was simply too stunned by her actions to do anything to stop them. Then, for another—longer, more delirious—moment, he found himself not really wanting to do anything to stop them. Thankfully, though, sanity stepped in, in that next moment, and somehow he gathered his wits enough to react. Quickly he reached for her hands to remove them from where they had settled, in a place on his upper thighs that was far too likely to rouse suspicion—among other things—should she venture any farther. Then, as gently as he could, he nudged her away.
“Thank you, Miss Finnegan,” he said, “but I think you’ve done enough for one morning.” Or one lifetime, for that matter, he thought further.
“I am so, so sorry,” she told him.
Purely out of habit he replied, “No problem.”
He turned his gaze to the design on which he’d spent the last thirty minutes and sighed heavily. He could salvage it—it was only a rough draft, after all, and the coffee had merely turned it brown, not obliterated it. That, however, wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Miss Audrey Finnegan, with her clumsiness and gracelessness and appalling bad luck—even if she did have luscious lips and beautiful eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit—was going to drive home what few nails were left in Wheeler’s professional coffin. And she was going to do it in half the time it would take him to botch things himself.
He ought to let her go, he thought, strangely saddened by the realization. There really was no other way. He could call One-Day-at-a-Timers and make up some story about his and Miss Finnegan’s incompatibility—he didn’t want to get her into trouble, after all—and ask the temp agency to send someone else in her wake. At this point, anyone they sent would be an improvement.
But when he looked at her face and saw the abject apology and need for atonement in her expression, he couldn’t quite form the words necessary to tell her she was fired. For all her awkwardness and misfortune, she really was very nice. And in spite of her having wrecked most of his office equipment—not to mention the first good idea he’d had in months—she had rather brightened up the place over the past week. Literally, he thought, when he recalled some of her outfits.
And then, of course, there was the small matter of her aforementioned luscious lips and beautiful eyes and legs that wouldn’t quit, which he assured himself only marginally influenced his ultimate decision.
Wheeler sighed. He supposed it wouldn’t kill him to give her a second chance. Surely they’d hit rock bottom by now. Things could only improve from here.
He ignored the little voice in the back of his brain that reminded him how this was a conversation he’d had with himself pretty much daily since taking on Miss Finnegan. So, technically, she had already exhausted her second chances—more than once, in fact—and he had already watched things go from bad to worse—again, more than once.
Still, he did kind of like her. He didn’t know why, but he did. Maybe because both of them seemed to be in the same boat—one that was fast sinking—where misfortune was concerned. Perhaps if he gave her just one more chance....
“Go ahead and take the extra half hour for lunch today,” he said halfheartedly. “You can make it up tomorrow if you want.”
Her eyes widened, making them appear even larger and greener than before—which was saying something. “O-okay,” she replied, obviously confused by his reaction, but evidently unwilling to draw any more attention to her latest debacle than was absolutely necessary. “Um, thanks, Mr. Rush. For everything. I appreciate it.”
He told himself he should ask her to call him Wheeler. Rush Designs, Inc. had never been a particularly formal business. Even when it was a successful one. He and his former secretary had been on a first-name basis from day one. Of course, Rosalie had been a fifty-six-year-old grandmother of three, but that was beside the point. Still, there was no reason for him and Miss Finnegan to stand on ceremony.
Nevertheless, something prevented him from extending the invitation to call him by his first name, and he forced himself not to ask if he could call her by hers. He wasn’t sure why. It just seemed best to keep their relationship as professional as possible. And even an insignificant, invisible barrier like the use of surnames would remind Wheeler that she was, first and foremost, his employee. He told himself it was essential that he keep that reminder planted firmly in his brain.
In spite of that, when she smiled back at him, somewhere deep inside him, in a place he’d never explored before, a little bubble of heat went fizz. It was the oddest sensation he’d ever felt. Before he had a chance to think about it, though, Miss Finnegan spoke again.
“I am so sorry about the coffee,” she repeated her earlier apology. He had noted that first day her propensity for apologizing more than once. “I should have watched where I was putting it. It was an accident, I swear. I really didn’t mean to—”
“Please, Miss Finnegan, don’t worry about it,” he said, interrupting her. “Let’s just both make a pact to be more careful from here on out, all right? And then let’s just forget it ever happened.”
She nodded vigorously. “Okay. I will if you will. And I promise you that nothing like that will happen again. Ever. I won’t let you down, Mr. Rush. I can assure you of that From here on out, with you and me working together, Rush Commercial Designs, Inc., is headed for great, great things.”
Three
Audrey approached her second Tuesday on the job with an air of caution, which was perfectly understandable, all things considered. She told herself that the previous week had been her warm-up, that anything that had gone wrong during those first five days could be excused as new-job