Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Thirty-Seven
Liam
“More coffee?”Eliza’s buttery voice breaks into my mental fog.
I smile at her cunning ability to know when I’m down to my last gulp. “Yes, please.”
She laughs. “You say ‘please’ now? I like it, Mr. Kline,” She teases, grabbing our mugs and strutting out of the conference room.
I catch myself eye-fucking her as she walks away. I swear—my wife has the hottest ass in all of creation. It looks goddamnned perfect in that new, curve-hugging skirt.
The best thing I ever did was spoil that woman with more clothes than she knows what to do with.
All day, I’ve been plowing through the Varner deal with Eliza by my side. Even with just the two of us on this file, we’re making fast progress. It certainly helps that my assistant knows what she’s doing. She even knows what I’m doing and anticipates it beforehand.
The two of us make a good team. Efficient, productive, a little bit flirty.
Eliza returns to our private conference room with fresh coffee, striding over to where I’m seated to deliver my steamy mug.
“Thank you,” I comment as she sets it on the table.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, a delicious smirk on those strawberry lips.
“Silk looks great on you.” I give in to temptation, reaching up to graze the backs of my fingers over the soft, slinky material on Eliza’s waist.
“You think?” She gives a little twirl, showing off all the angles I’ve been gawking at all day.
“And that skirt…” I groan.
She scoffs. “Lucky for you, I didn’t return everything to your doorstep Saturday night.”
That stylist called me the evening after Eliza’s at-home fashion show, telling me that my wife chose just three outfits. Three, dammit. I wasn’t having that shit, so I told Kylie to leave every single piece at Eliza’s apartment and invoice me for it all.
I chuckle. "Mmm...You can strip yourself naked on my doorstep any day of the week, sweetheart. I wouldn't mind." I wink.
She gives me the stink-eye. “I’m not joking, Robo-Boss.”
I let my hand fall away from her shirt, but not before skimming down her hip. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me,” she snaps playfully, poking a single finger into my chest.
I’m still seated at the head of the conference table, and she’s standing over me. I’m trying hard not to notice, but her tits look great from this angle.
“Why Robo-Boss?” I pretend to frown.
“You’re bossy and you’re always grumpy. The name fits.” She shrugs.
“You’re a strangely creative woman,” I muse, grabbing onto the finger that stabbed me and not letting go. “Most people just call me an asshole.” I softly bite her fingertip.
“Oh, I call you that, too.”
I crack up. “Jesus, woman.”
The memory of what it feels like to touch her between the thighs comes flooding into my mind. I want to pull her into my lap and slide my hands under her skirt.
But Eliza glances out the window of the conference room and immediately backs away from me.
“What’s wrong?” I look over and see Desiree eyeballing us from the hallway.
Eliza is now half way across the room, and avoiding my eyes. Her voice is hushed when she finally answers. “I…I don’t want the entire office talking about this. Or people getting the wrong idea and assuming that I’m sleeping with the boss for a promotion.”
Personally, I don’t see the big deal. “Hey, look at it this way, if we sleep together, it’d be perfectly legitimate. We’re already married.” I laugh.
Eliza doesn’t share my humor.
In fact, she doesn’t look amused at all.
My expression goes serious. “These are my employees,” I remind her, ready to dismiss all this nonsense. “I pay them to do their jobs. I don’t give a shit what they think about my personal life.”
“Liam, it’s not you I’m worried about. They’re all afraid of you anyway.” She sighs. “Do you know how hard it is for a woman to earn respect when people think she’s opening her legs to get ahead? It’s absolutely degrading.”
My lips thin into a flat line. All jokes aside, that’s not the kind of work environment I want for Eliza.
My mind drifts back to the conversation I had with the guys over poker on the weekend. Those fuckers were wrong. I can’t just dive into a real relationship with my fake wife. That would never work out.
I clear my throat and avert my eyes, refocusing on the work in front of me. “You’re right. The last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable.” I cut her off when she tries to argue. “You don’t have to worry about me. From here on out, I’ll be strictly professional.”
No more flirting. No more looking at her ass. No more finding excuses to get close to her body.
I don’t look up to see her reaction. She falls into the seat furthest from mine, and we get back to work.