Page 16 of Jealous Boss

* * *

Breakfast was almost too good—softscrambled eggs, thick toast, and bacon so crispy I moaned before I could stop myself.

Ethan sent me a hooded glance but didn’t say anything, though I caught the sharp flick of his eyes toward my mouth, the grip of his fork tightening just slightly.

Now, in the car, the windows are fogged just enough to feel like a secret, he’s typing something on his phone with surgeon-like focus, but every few minutes, he glances over at me—and not in the way a boss should look at his intern.

It’s darker.Hotter.

Like he’s still thinking about what I look like wrapped in a towel, and not just whether I can spellvinaigrettecorrectly.

I try to focus on the grocery list Maggie just texted to remind me about—milk, pasta, cheese, actual food, something green for credibility, and ice cream of course because a girl can’t have enough ice cream—but my hand shakes every time I add something, because I can feel the tension pressing between us like the leather seats aren’t even there.

He finally speaks, voice low and casual, but with a thread of authority I feel all the way down to my toes. “You’re sitting in on the client meeting this morning.”

My head jerks toward him. “Me?”

He doesn’t look over this time. Just gives a small nod. “Yes, you. Unless you want me to ask another intern?”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished speaking, the spike of jealousy through my belly telling me how much I hate the thought of Ethan’s attention on anyone else but me. “No need. I’ll be ready.”

His eyes gleam, I think with approval. But beneath that I see something else. The very thing that quotes every word with a double meaning.

The very dangerous thing that preens to be the subject of his focus.

The thought that for the first time in my life, someone sees me.

* * *

The conference roomis all glass and steel and money.

The kind of place where billion-dollar deals get made over still water and colder smiles.

I sit one seat down from Ethan—close enough to feel his presence, far enough to pretend I’m not completely, shamefully aware of every inch of him in that impossibly sharp tailored suit.

That I didn’t spot the thick bulge behind his lounge pants last night and replay that image over and over in my head once I’d dragged my sorry ass from the door and crawled into my bed.

Across the table, the clients are already talking—big energy, sharp suits, one woman with a massive rock on her finger I can’t stop staring at.

Ethan is calm, collected. Ruthless when he needs to be.

I watch him handle them like a violin—tight control, perfect pitch. No wasted words. He lays out how he’s going to make them richer than they already are, and they lap up every word. Because he’s a genius with a track record to prove it.

But then—every so often—his hand shifts.

His pinky brushing the table near mine.

His gaze flicks down to my notes, then back to the clients, his jaw tightening just a little like he knows I’m clocking everything. Like he knows how in awe of him I am.

And I am. God, Iam.

I read somewhere once that power is sexy.

I scoffed then. I’m not scoffing now.

I lean forward once to whisper something—just a small clause I noticed in the contract summary. “Page five. The indemnity clause—they haven’t agreed it yet.”

He doesn’t answer. Just glances sideways, slow, deliberate.

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