Page 44 of Single Girl in the City
“Is that a trick question?” He smiled and she rolled her eyes.
“Let me rephrase. How can I best help you?”
His grin was alive and spreading—all the way to her belly. “Again, not sure how you want me to respond.”
“How about you go sit there.” She pointed to the couch and waited until he was seated a good five feet from her before she took a seat. She folded her hands on the desktop and glanced over the screen. “You’re working out next month’s schedule.”
“And the software sucks. Hell, if you can fix it, then you’re hired.”
“I’m already hired. And I have no doubt I can fix it.” It was the same software they’d used at the wine bar she’d managed, and it was as user-friendly as programs came.
“If you say so.” He leaned back on the couch and stretched out, his legs so long they pushed up against the desk. His head was leaned back, his eyes closed, and his arms were spread across the back of the couch. He looked deceivingly relaxed and comfortable, but she knew he could pounce at any moment.
He wasn’t sleeping, more like making a point. Because ten minutes in, when Abi was completely lost, he mumbled, “Problem?” in this know-it-all tone that was like a rough piece of chalk on a blackboard.
Yes, there was an enormous problem, she just wasn’t sure how to go about the solution. It wasn’t the software, it was a procedure problem.
“Nope.” She popped that P. “Just wondering though, what’s the company policy on time off.” Because as far as she could tell the policy was to write time-off requests on a memo note and stick it to the desk. And there were a lot.
There was a stack of pink slips tacked under a paperweight. Some were future requests, others as old as six months back.
“We’re an employee’s satisfaction first kind of company.” She looked up and, yup, the innuendo was intentional.
“I’m an independent contractor,” she pointed out. “Not that it matters.”
“Not that it matters.”
Tuning him out, she went back to scheduling, and he went back to fake sleeping. “Huh,” was all she said.
He cracked open one eye. “Huh, what?”
“Nothing.”
He narrowed his gaze and when she didn’t elaborate, he stood and walked around the desk, looking at the computer over her shoulder. He was close, too close.
“Go ahead.” He bent over her, resting a palm on the desk, his arm brushing her shoulder, his body’s heat slipping through her shirt. She nearly groaned. “Explain the ‘huh,’” he pressed.
“It’s just that your system isn’t working as effectively as it could.”
“What do you mean, it ‘isn’t working as effectively as it could’? It’s worked fine for thirty years.” Which meant he’d adopted his dad’s methods of keeping records and managing his employees. With the exception of maintaining the website, Owen had his hand in every pot.
“Your system is to scribble time-off requests and schedule swaps on sticky notes.” She held up a cocktail napkin. “I can’t even read this one.”
He snatched it, then grinned. “This is personal, not business.”
She snatched it back and squinted at the cramped writing. “Candy. Call if you want a lick,” she read. “Do you think it’s her real name?”
“There’s only one way to find out.” He reached for the office phone, but she pushed the hang-up button. “What happened to never mixing business and pleasure?”
“Just because a beautiful lady gives me her number doesn’t mean I’ll call.”
“You called me.”
He laughed, the sound dangerously low. “I did. Then you steamrolled me into hiring you.”
She spun the chair until she was facing him. Big mistake. The motion placed her in a precarious situation. She could feel his smile, so she stood. Not that there was room. It was as if his body filled all the space in the room.
Arms crossed, Abi tilted her head back, all the way back until she was certain he could see her glaring.
