Page 7 of Strictly Yours

“Your sister?”

“Willow Fletcher. Do you know her? Blonde. Brilliant. Currently on a plane to Kauai looking like she just escaped a hostage situation. Ring any bells?”

“Of course, I know Willow!” he snaps. “I hired her.”

“Then what the hell is your problem?”

“Excuseme?” he says, rearing back in shock.

I glare at him as I grind my highlighter cigar onto the desk, stubbing it out on the expensive oak.

“You work her too much.”

He scoffs.

I slowly rise, digging my fists into the desk as I glare at him.

“Do you get off on working your employees to the bone?”

“Do you know how much Willow makes in a year?” he shoots back.

“I’m not talking about money,” I say. “I’m talking about basic human decency. She’s a human being, and unless this office runs on human sacrifice, you might consider letting her leave before midnight once in a while.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. No sound comes out.

I just stunned the dragon.

His mouth is in a straight line, but oh my god, does he look good not smiling. The tension in his jaw is practically vibrating. He’s got that whole stormy silver fox alpha thing going—dark tailored suit, silver at his temples, that perfect mix of old-money polish and simmering rage.

“Do you know what she does when she gets home at those ungodly hours?” I ask now that I have him on his heels. “She scarfs down a protein bar, watches eight minutes of a trashy reality show she’ll tragically never finish, and then falls asleep sitting up like a Victorian ghost. That isyourfault.”

“Myfault?” he says, staring at me in shock. “You make it sound like I’m forcing her to be here. She loves this job!”

“Sure,” I say with a fake smile. “The way people say they love marathons. Or colonoscopies.”

His lips press into a hard line.

I take a step closer, head tilted. “Look, I’m just saying… if someone looks that tired all the time, maybe the boss shouldn’t be proud of it.”

“I’m not—” he starts, but I raise a hand.

“It’s fine,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I’m not here to unionize. Just picking up a key. But for what it’s worth, if I see her name in a company Slack message timestamped after midnight, I will fly back here and stage an intervention. Possibly involving glitter.”

He stares at me. Still not speaking. But his ears have gone pink.

And I think…oh.

I got to him.

Mr. Iceberg-in-a-Tom-Ford-suit is on his heels.

I tear my eyes off him and look for the key because I shouldn’t be noticing how the fabric of his shirt stretches across his chest just right. Or how the sleeves of his jacket cling to his arms like they were custom-tailored for the sole purpose of testing my devotion to my sister.

I spot the key next to Willow’s nameplate and grab it, swinging it in circles on my finger.

“You got it all wrong,” he says as he steps forward. “Willow is an essential part of the company.”

“Sure,” I say with a breezy nod. “So essential she’s apparently not allowed to sleep or see the sun. Or eat food that didn’t come from a foil wrapper.”

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