Page 19 of A Bossy Proposal

Everything looks untouched.

“Mr. Davenport...” the guard whispers.

I turn to see him pointing at a body on the couch against the back wall.

“Amelia?”

I stare at my executive assistant, sleeping here in my office.

Her hair is in a messy bun, and her head is on a large duffel bag. She has my towel draped over her to keep her warm.

What the hell?

I thank the guard and ask him to wait outside, keeping quiet as he leaves.

My eyes roam over her sleeping form and the loose tendrils around her face. She looks peaceful, beautiful. A stark contrast to the frantic energy she usually exudes during the office hours.

I approach her slowly, taking in the sight of her curled up on my couch. She’s no longer in a business suit, but in leggings and a T-shirt, and she looks so damn cute.

Crouching on my haunches, I study her sleeping face. Intrigued at why she is here.

Something stirs within me.

Ignoring whatever that is, I clear my throat, not wanting to startle her, and whisper, “Amelia?”

She stirs, her eyes fluttering open.

For one moment, she looks confused, and then her eyes widen as she takes in her surroundings and me.

“Mr. Davenport?” Her voice is hoarse. She blinks a few times, and then she presses her hand on the couch and sits up quickly. “Oh, my God…I’m sorry.”

Panic rises in her eyes as she realizes I’ve caught her.

“It’s okay, Amelia.”

“Oh, Mr. Davenport. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, but what are you doing here?”

“I’m...I’m sorry.” She scrambles off the couch and grabs her bag. “I’ll leave now. You’ll never see me again, but please don’t press charges.”

“Wait,” I say, my voice softer now. She’s practically vibrating with anxiety, eyes wide as they dart around the room. “It’s fine, but talk to me.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” she whispers, hands clasped together. “I can’t be arrested. I just…I can’t.” She repeats it like a frantic mantra. “I can’t be arrested. I can’t be arrested.”

My eyebrows furrow.

Why is she so terrified of the police?

It’s not like she’s committed a crime, is it? Or has she?

The way she’s acting is unusual. This is way beyond a simple case of being caught sleeping in my office. There’s a desperation in her eyes that chills me. And something much deeper than the fear of losing her job.

Is she running from something? Or someone?

“Amelia,” I say, my voice firm but gentle, trying to pierce through her panic. “Breathe. And then tell me what is going on.”

She looks at me, tears welling in her eyes. “I...I can’t,” she chokes out, shaking her head. “Please, don’t call the police. Please,” she begs, her voice desperate and raw.

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