Page 25 of Just The Way You Aren't

She clears her throat and gives me a slightly panicked look. “Ms. Harper, sorry to interrupt your work.”

Ms. Harper? Since when does she call me that? “Is everything okay?”

She looks around. “Mr. Langley is here.”

I glance at the Minnie Mouse alarm clock on my desk. “He’s twenty minutes early.”

The pen still twirling between my fingers suddenly falls onthe desk. I scramble to catch it, but it rolls off and under my chair. I scoop it up and smack my head on the desk as I straighten. Rubbing my now pulsing skull, I frown. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

Abby anxiously looks over her shoulder and disappears. She is immediately replaced by the living and breathing definition of my daydream.

Damien walks into my office wearing a polo shirt and honest-to-god jeans. If he hadn’t been mouthwateringly handsome before—which he definitely was—he sure is now. It feels like someone’s put a heat lamp on over me and suddenly I need a cool drink of water.

He’s also talking to me, which I only realize after I’ve ogled him in mute stupefaction for several moments.

“…a few reporters,” he finishes, sounding annoyed.

“Sorry, did you say reporters?” I repeat distantly, trying ever so hard not to get caught up in the pleasing fit of his shirt over the hard planes and muscled slabs of his broad chest and trim torso. In my defense, there is nowhere to look! Every inch of him is perfectly sculpted, including his face.

“Yes, Willow.” He sighs, looking miserable.

“Okay.” I don’t want him to know I wasn’t listening. Mostly I don’t want him to know why I wasn’t listening. I turn my smile up to 100 and look into those mesmerizing emerald green eyes of his. “Should we get the day started? We need to load the van.”

He gives me an odd look, then shrugs and heads out of my office to walk toward the back where the loading area is located.

I know I’m going to hell for this, but I cop another look at his wide shoulders and perfect butt as he stalks ahead of me. How soft must his thick black hair be? I’m willing to bet it’llfeel amazing in my hands. Preferably while he’s got me pinned beneath him on a bed somewhere and making me scream in pleasure.

Oh, god. Eye-fucking my company’s temporary help is probably not a great way to start the day. I have to focus! I follow Damien out back where he’s already begun loading meals into the van to ask him what he was trying to tell me about reporters, when a flash makes me jump.

“Mr. Langley, how long have you been helping out at Silver Hearts?” a woman, clearly a reporter, asks, holding up her phone and taking another flash photo.

I don’t see why she needs to have the flash on in broad daylight, but I’m not a photographer. “What the—?” I murmur.

“Ms. Harper, what’s it like having Damien Langley working for Silver Hearts?” another reporter, a man this time, asks me.

Oh. This is what he meant. I swallow my disappointment and dial my smile up to 150. Try to think of the upside. This could be good press for Silver Hearts, too, after all. I can roll with this. “It’s great! He’s a hard worker and really cares about the people we serve. As you know, Silver Hearts is dedicated to keeping elderly people in their homes for as long as possible. Providing the means for our community’s seniors to lead fulfilling lives and to enjoy their later years at home is not just our mission, but our passion! We’re so happy Mr. Langley has chosen our organization?—”

“Mr. Langley? My question?” the female reporter interrupts rudely.

There are at least fifteen reporters standing behind her, all of them vibrating with questions I know are going to come bursting out of them at any second.

“I’ve been volunteering here for a little over a week,” Damien replies, still going back and forth with stacks of meals. His voice is very cold.

Oh shit. I hadn’t noticed before, but Damien Langley has absolutely no game when it comes to PR.

“It’s been such an exciting ten days,” I say quickly. “Mr. Langley’s been doing the meal rounds with me—unfortunately, one of our volunteers is out sick and we need to cover her shift—and not only is he good with our clients, but he’s been helping me plan a fundraiser for Silver Hearts?—”

“Uh-huh,” the woman cuts me off.

Damien’s eyes flash. He’s completely aware that the reporter is being rude to me. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not hiding that fact very well. His scowl darkens and I swear he’s only about two seconds away from barking something disastrous at these vultures.

“Mr. Langley, over here!” another reporter calls. “After the recent article in The Adirondack Gazette, is this just a publicity stunt to bolster your image so you don’t lose your contract with Guardian Productions?”

Damien scoffs. “I was not aware that pathetic little wannabe newspaper had a name.”

Oh. My. Jesus.

I step in swiftly, even though I have no idea what article they’re talking about. “What Mr. Langley means to say, of course, is that he was caught off-guard by the negative press. I can personally vouch for his character. This is no publicity stunt. Mr. Langley has dedicated much of his precious time to getting Silver Hearts ready for a successful fundraiser. He also went on rounds with me—when he didn’t have to—and he volunteered to fix one of our clients’ stoves. He did it quite well, by the way. Now she can be independent in her homeand cook her own meals.” I glance at Damien and give him a smile meant to reassure him that I’ve got his back. “This is just one example of how Mr. Langley, and Silver Hearts as a whole, make it possible for older adults to maintain their independence. Mr. Langley isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, and I like that about him. Some people would just throw a check our way and be done with it, but Mr. Langley has really been stepping up.”

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