The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,47

his eyes, like I’ve just sucker-punched him. Maybe I have, though it’s the bare truth. I never intended to tango with my boss. Don’t mix business with pleasure. That’s one of my mantras. One of my mother’s too.

But that look on his face tugs on my heart. Makes me want to say yes. His honesty, his forthrightness, they make me want to loop my arms around his neck and smother him with kisses then ask him to take me home.

Trouble is, I don’t know how to balance these warring wishes. “I’ve worked hard to keep my personal life separate from business. I don’t date people I work with. I want to inspire the people I work with. I want to elevate them. Help them be the best. I don’t want to be a source of office gossip, though, and I keep thinking I will be if we’re together. It’s like my mom always said: Don’t give them something to talk about.”

“The opposite of the Bonnie Raitt anthem,” he says wryly.

“Exactly. I try to do the opposite.” I reach for his hand, wanting to take it, but knowing I can’t yet. Because I don’t know if I can do this. Flirting in the office was risky enough, but this—his offer—is the real line. This is the public line.

I place my hands in my lap.

“But I’m not saying no. I’m saying”—I draw a deep breath—“I’d like to think about it this weekend.”

“Of course.”

The speed of his answer, the certainty behind it is one more reason why I’ll be giving it so much thought.

Later that night, as I sink onto the bed next to Bruce, I bury my face in my hands. How can I date my boss when one wrong move could mean losing everything I’ve worked for?

The answer is simple.

I can’t.

But is that the answer I’ll give?

19

Bruce

Day 897 in Prison

What?

Who was disturbing his slumber?

Bruce had been training hard to sleep twenty-two hours a day. He’d surpassed twenty-one the other month and had closed in on twenty-two a few weeks ago.

He was enticingly near to making that mark today.

He barely bothered to open one eye, doing so only because he needed to know the enemy.

Ah, the woman.

The jailer.

The human he tried to resist.

She’d flopped down next to him on his bed. She liked to call it her bed, but he knew whose it truly was. His. The entire expanse of soft blankets and warm pillows belonged to him.

He’d commandeered it months ago, his first act of jailhouse rebellion, claiming it as his own, rubbing his body against it, leaving fur where he could.

Marking it all over.

“Bruce,” the woman said with a sigh, sliding a hand along his spine.

Ah, that was sort of . . . pleasant. Her hand felt exceptionally good.

“What am I going to do?”

Bruce hoped she’d pet him. She’d vastly improved her petting skills over all these long days of incarceration. She used to pet his belly, and he’d taught her quickly, with a few well-placed nicks and scratches, NEVER TO DO THAT AGAIN.

Fast learner, she now only stroked his back.

Purr-fection.

“He wants to tell HR. To be open. To try dating. And I want that. Truly, I do. But what if . . .”

What if she stopped stroking him? That would sadden Bruce immensely, so he amplified his noise-making device, using it to encourage her to keep it up.

Petting like this would put him back to sleep, and sleep was what he craved most.

Well, after trout.

And flounder.

And, admittedly, a grilled branzino. His mouth watered as he remembered the one she’d given him a few weeks ago. That was when he’d first started to curl up with her at night. After all, branzinos were branzinos, and he’d wanted her to know he’d appreciated the gift of adoration laid at his paws.

“What if it all comes back to haunt me?” she continued with a heavy sigh. “If it doesn’t work out, I’m just the woman who dated the CEO. Who slept with the boss. And he’s still . . . the boss. Nothing changes for him. It’s harder for women, you know.”

It’s harder for cats who can’t catch branzinos on their own. That was what was hard. Try not having access to a stream for fishing. Talk about misery.

She chattered on as she stroked his fur. “I told him I need to think about it. Maybe over the weekend. Because what if it goes south like everything did with Evan? That can happen, right?”

Evan. The word sounded so familiar.

Ah, Evan. That name