Page 43 of My Boss

Holy crap! My coffee spills on my white blouse. His coffee lands on his snowy shirt, the cup falls to the floor with a clatter, shattering into pieces. Oh God, it hurts like hell.

“I burned myself,” I hiss.

“Splash water on them.” Jan turns on the faucet, and I immediately reach for the cold stream.

I cool my fingers, but they are not the ones that have suffered the most. I bite my lip because my cleavage is burning as if someone slapped me with a bundle of nettles. I›m about to go crazy.

“Turn around,” I snarl through my teeth.

“Pardon?”

“I have to take off my blouse! Turn around!” I almost shout through the tears that threaten to spill any moment.

A flash of understanding appears in his eyes. He turns away immediately.

With trembling fingers I undo the buttons. Christ, how it burns. I throw off my blouse and scoop up the water with my hands to splash on my skin.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jan’s voice reaches me.

I don’t look at him. I don’t even know if he’s still standing with his back to me. And I don’t give a damn. What I would like to do is to crawl into the sink. But of course, I won’t fucking fit in.

“If you can turn me into a fucking Thumbelina, go ahead.”

A strange murmur comes from his throat.

“There should be some panthenol in the medicine cabinet.” I hear him moving around, opening the cabinet, flipping through the medicine packs and mumbling something under his breath.

Geez, what is taking so long? Is he manufacturing this panthenol?

“Did you get it?” I ask finally, between one splash and another.

“Yes,” he speaks up right next to me. I shift my gaze to him and freeze.

Holy shit! Jan is standing wearing only his pants. No jacket, no vest, no damn shirt! Just a bare chest. I can hardly breathe.

When on earth did he manage to undress?

If my skin was burning before, now it feels like burning alive. How is it possible for a guy who spends his days in the office to have such a divine body? I can’t take my eyes off his muscular arms, his chest with its dark line of short hair, his sculpted belly….

Finally, I raise my head. Jan is staring at my breasts. His pupils are dilated, his Adam’s apple ripples exactly as it did a few minutes ago when I thought he was irritated.

I must have suffered a first-degree burn because a current is flowing through me, gliding downward at a shocking pace and accumulating between my legs. I squeeze my thighs as Jan moves his gaze upward over my naked skin—over my cleavage, my neck, stopping at my lips.

Christ, don’t let him look at me like that. I tremble, and my body is covered with goosebumps.

“You’re cold,” he states, and before I have time to reply, he slips the panthenol into his pocket, steps aside and reaches for his jacket, impeccably hanging on a chair.

Well, sure, if he had a steam iron at hand, he would probably iron it now. But he doesn’t do that, he just takes it from the backrest, walks over to me and throws it over my shoulders.

Jesus, that killer scent again. What does he splash himself with, pheromones? My knees weaken, my stomach twists into knots, a shudder turns into a wave of heat. Or is it the result of the burn?

“Lie down.” Engler points to a bench at one of the tables.

What am I supposed to do? He’s gone mad. And since when are we on a first name basis?

Jan apparently read the doubt on my face because he immediately adds, “Maria, your neck and chest are all red. Lie down.” He takes an orange container out of his pocket and shakes it vigorously.

Right. Coffee. Burnt skin. Panthenol.

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