Page 10 of Jealous Boss

Ethan

Ishouldn’t be here.

I know I shouldn’t be here.

She’s my intern. Philip’s niece.

A walking HR violation with big eyes and soft lips and absolutely no sense of professional boundaries. Not on purpose. No—Pia just doesn’t know what she’s doing to me.

That’s the damn problem.

Maggie said she’d taken care of everything, and I trust my PA. Even if she’s begun to give me puzzled looks whenever Pia is around.

I have zero intention of asking what that’s about. Because I know.

My behavior has grown erratic.

I can’t stop staring at Pia Hyde. Can’t stop wondering where the hell she is every time she leaves my line of sight.

It’s damn inconvenient. Alarming as fuck.

And it’s only Day Three. I should be thankful she’s survived Philly and the firm so far.

Yet here I am, standing outside her condo like a lunatic.

I knock once, sharp. Terse. Regret already burning low in my gut.

I should walk away. I should text her the reminder to cc me on the Tokyo acquisition files and forget I ever noticed how that little sweater hugged her waist this morning.

Or how many times she crossed and recrossed her gorgeous legs during the client meeting this afternoon.

But I don’t.

Because she didn’t come into the office this evening like she said she would, to check in with me before she left.

Because her idiot uncle thought it would be a brilliant idea to rent the unitdirectly beneath mineto his innocent, wide-eyed niece, who he clearly thinks is still twelve instead of a bombshell going on twenty-one.

Yeah, I peeped at her personnel file.

She was born on Valentine’s Day, for fuck’s sake. Everything about this girl turns my mind tosex sex sex.

The door opens.

And there she is.

Barefoot.

In pajama shorts.

Hair piled up like she forgot there was a world outside her apartment. Big spoon of ice cream halfway to her mouth.

Her eyes widen and the spoon falls back into the carton. “Mr. Villiers…I…what are you doing here?” She frowns, looks past my shoulder. “I wasn’t told you were downstairs. The concierge is supposed to tell me when I have visitors. I think.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not a visitor. I live in the building.” I frown down at the ice cream. “And is that dessert or dinner?"

She startles, twirls the spoon, tongue darting out to swipe at a drip on her bottom lip. “I—hi. Um, yeah? I haven’t had time to?—”

“Didn’t Maggie organize a grocery delivery for you?” I ask, cutting her off. Too sharp. Too fast. I don’t like the sound of my own voice right now. Like I’ve already lost control at the sight of that tongue gliding over her lip. The way I want to do with mine.

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