Page 6 of Strictly Yours

My sister is so impressive. She always has been. Valedictorian in high school, star volleyball player in college, and nowthis. She never ceases to amaze me.

I smile as I walk in and run my finger along her polished desk, not a speck of dust in sight. My sister built this from nothing. No shortcuts, no rich parents greasing wheels. Just ambition, caffeine, and pure, relentless Willow-ness. I don’tknow how she does it. I couldn’t accomplish a tenth of what she does, even if I was trying my hardest.

But at the same time, I wouldn’t want to. That’s why I’m not jealous of her accomplishments. This life is great for her, but it’s not a life I would ever want. One month of being cooped up in this intense corporate environment and I’d be trying to open the windows to swan dive out.

I pull out her luxurious leather chair, plop into it with a softoompf, and swivel around to face the stunning view.

It’s my first time in New York and I’m excited to see it all.

And holy shit.

New York City stretches out like a dream—twinkling lights, honking taxis, all that energy pulsing through the streets below like veins. My heart does this fluttery thing. Like it knows something’s coming. Something good.

I toss my legs up on the desk, crossing them at the ankle like a true boss.

Then, I grab Willow’s highlighter and puff it like it’s a big fat Cuban cigar.

I don’t want Willow’s life, but the fantasy is fun.

I picture myself as a high-powered executive, but I know I’d be horrible at it. I’d be constantly getting into trouble.

I’d hand out raises like Oprah on a season premiere and cancel all meetings before 10 a.m. I’d fill the office with bean bag chairs and therapy puppies and I’d place a giant jar of peanut M&M’s on the reception desk. The dress code would be non-existent and of course, everyone would have Fridays off.

I puff on my cigar highlighter as I stare at the spectacular skyline.

“Who the hell are you?”

The voice is deep. Sharp. 100%notamused.

I freeze mid–highlighter puff and slowly turn in the chair, feet still propped on the desk like I own the place.

And wow.

There he is.

The grumpy boss. The terrifying Mr. Cranky Pants himself.

The man that Willow has complained endlessly about every time I’ve seen her in the past five years. The man who’s shaved years off her life. The man who’s about to get an earful from her overprotective younger sister.

“Amber,” I say as I stare into his dark brown eyes. “And who the hell are you?”

“The owner of this company,” he says in a razor-sharp tone that would have most people scrambling in panic. I’m not most people. I stay nice and relaxed as I hold his bullying gaze.

“Well, whoop-de-doo for you,” I say between puffs of my highlighter cigar.

He steps into the office and holy hell this man is a looker. Mean, but a looker nonetheless. His suit is fitted like a glove on his tall, muscular frame. His tie is loose—the only thing loose about him—and I get an urge to take it off and slide it from his neck. Or, maybe I’d like to hang him with it. I’m not sure yet.

Those scorching brown eyes are something though. Deep, intense, a little bloodshot, and focused right on me. From there, it just gets better with his perfectly styled brown hair and the subtle wisps of gray mixed in, his symmetrical facial features, and his five o’clock shadow that gives his sexy jaw a nice shade of darkness to match his soul.

His back straightens as he steps into the office, glaring at me.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I grin at him. “I get that a lot.”

He stares, silent. Calculating. Like he’s trying to figure out if he should call security or toss me over his big broad shoulder and throw me out himself. I’d prefer the latter.

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “I’m just here to pick up a key from my sister.”

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