Page 20 of Jealous Boss

I’ve just dumped my briefcase, yanked off my jacket and tie and am about to tackle the buttons to my shirt when she knocks.

I hustle to the door. “That was fast,” I say a little dryly. I have to use that voice or I’ll be sounding hopeful at her eagerness. And I don’t want Pia eager about anything. Do I?

Fuck no.

Because that’s the siren call to trouble.

“Yeah, the Bavarian nuns at my school were very strict about timekeeping. I got punished if I didn’t complete a task in a set time.”

I’m a fucking nutcase.

Because my mind immediately jumps to setting her a specific task. Making me come in under three minutes flat.

Would she succeed? Fail?

I have a feeling just for the praise slut she is, my little Pia would ace it.

I stifle a groan, step back, and wave her in.

Shut the door. And turn the lock for no reason.

No one’s allowed on this floor or my front door without my explicit permission, but somehow it makes me feel better to secure us in.

Like some fucking Neanderthal.

She’s wearing another pair of shorts. Not sleep shorts this time, but they’re just as skimpy. As is her white top.

Her hair is still up in the knot from this morning, but it’s a bit wobbly and a bit disheveled, probably in her hurry to meet her self-imposed deadline. And I like that about Pia.

I’m used to women who primp and pluck themselves to overblown perfection and lose their minds when a hair is out of place.

Pia doesn’t need to strive for perfection. She alreadyis.

And fuck if I don’t care how sappy that thought is.

Her dimples are still in place when she walks back into my condo, and as I trail after her, inhaling her sweet perfume, I admit how right it feels here. How much I’ve missed it since last night.

“Are they in there?” She points to my fridge, then heads over to it, pulls it open.

Bends over to examine the shelves.

And my belly clenches again.

At this rate I won’t even need to do the two hundred crunches that’s part of my workout. My eight-pack will be fully serviced just by what this girl makes me feel.

“Why don’t you leave them where they are?” I say gruffly.

She spins on the balls of her feet, her eyes widening. “Oh.” She tilts her head. “Really? You want two cartons of oat milk and a very bossy-looking head of broccoli in your fridge?”

“There’s no point stocking two fridges and cooking two separate meals when you can eat here. With me,” I add gruffly, just so we’re clear.

“And when you’re not around? Because I’ve seen your schedule. You’re rarely home like you’ve been these last few nights.”

I shrug, don’t tell her I don’t plan to change that anytime soon. “We’ll work it out. I have a few takeout places worth the trouble. Or I can cook something for you to keep and heat up.” Fucking hell, what am I, a 1950’s housewife?

She looks from my face to the fridge and back again. “Are you sure?”

“I rarely say things I don’t mean, Pia.”

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