Garrett

Waiting for Ivy to arrive at work was the closest thing I'd ever come to experiencing torture. Because not only did stress do terrible things to my body—tense shoulders, sweaty skin, rolling gut—but my mind played every dumbass mistake I'd made in the last twenty-four hours on an endless loop.

"For fuck's sake, Garrett," I admonished myself, dragging my hands through my hair and tugging on my tie.

Ten years. Ten! That's how long I'd gone without crossing the line Parker and I put in place, and there had been plenty of opportunity. A company like ours—owned by two young, reasonably attractive, wealthy men—was a magnet for coat tail riders. A number of people had applied with the hope of one day trading in the name plaque for a ring.

And to make things even worse, Ivy wasn't a new employee. We'd worked together for years without a hint of impropriety until recently. Now my dick suddenly stood at attention at the mere thought of the woman, and after this morning, I didn't have to wonder what her body looked like under those fucking pencil skirts and frilly blouses.

Now, I only had to close my eyes to see her dark nipples straining against the damp material of her T-shirt. If her friend hadn't knocked on the door when she had, I would have kissed Ivy. And then I would have laid her out across those white counter tops, put my mouth between her legs—right on the triangle of floral fabric that I'd spied when her shirt rose while she was making coffee—and had the breakfast I really wanted.

Which is precisely why I had stormed down to her office the moment she arrived and told her she needed to come to my office for a chat. Sure, I'd come across harsher than intended, but my morals were hanging by a thread. The only way I could salvage this entire thing was by righting the hierarchy between us.

I was her boss. She was my employee. And more than that, she was Ivy Wilson. The kind of woman I learned long ago not to fuck with.

Maybe that was the problem. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my text messages, trying to find the last time I'd asked Jordan to come over. Neither of us were interested in anything more than scratching an itch, and since she had her own successful business, I never worried she would suddenly develop gold digger syndrome. If I messaged her now, I could meet her during our lunch break. That would definitely make this weekend easier.

Three knocks sounded on my office door before it opened, hinges protesting as Ivy entered the room. She shut it behind her and faced me with her hands clasped together in front of her. Today, her rosebud mouth was lipstick free, and the line between her lips turned slightly down as she waited for me to speak. Of course, I hadn't planned on taking this long to say something, but all I could do was stare at her mouth and think about how it was the exact shade of her nipples.

"Mr. James," she said, tilting her head to the side. A strand of dark hair she'd tucked behind her ear came loose and curled under chin.

Mr. James. That was good. She was already reinstating professional boundaries. This might be easier than I thought.

"You'll need to be ready to leave by noon tomorrow," I blurted out, mentally face palming. Where was the apology for this morning? The promise it wouldn't happen again, and the request for a verbal agreement that things would stay professional going forward?

Her shoulders dropped, and the line between her lips flipped. "That's fine. I think I can manage that."

"Good. Good." I sat in my chair, using the desk as a shield between us. "Do you have an evening gown?"

"An evening gown?" Her hands fell to her side. "Why do I need an evening gown?"

"The last night of the event is a gala. It's Simon's way of thanking everyone for coming."

"I-I'm sure I have something."

Well aware that the average individual didn't keep formal attire on hand, I dug a credit card from my wallet. "Pick something up today."

She stared at the card like it was a viper. "I said I—"

"Probably have something. Ivy, I'm afraid we don't have time for an emergency. If you get home and don't have something suitable, you won't have time to pick anything up before we leave, and it's an extremely formal event. Any old dress won't do."

"Fine." She snatched it. "Anything else?"

"Pack something casual, too. Sunday afternoon, you'll have some time off. The Apple Festival will be in full swing. I highly recommend going while we're there."

"I'll do that." Her words pushed through gritted teeth. Had I angered her? "Anything else?"

"No, except..." I drummed my fingers on the desktop and attempted to draw in a calming breath without being obvious. "This morning... well, I apologize. You know we are going to have to share a room at the hotel, and I promise I will keep things strictly professional."

"Of course." Ivy's face was an alarming shade of red. "I did reach out and confirm with the hotel that we were able to swap rooms with someone, so we will at least have a room with two beds."

"Excellent." Thank god. I hadn't been looking forward to sleeping on the pull out couch, and there was no way I could share a bed with her. Not and get any rest. "That's all."

"Yes, sir." She waved the card in the air. "I'll head out and get this sorted."

"Perfect. And Ivy—" Her hand hovered over the doorknob, and when she looked at me, her eyes were darker than normal. "Again, thank you. You really saved the day."

"Thank you," she whispered, and then bolted.