Nicola Marsh - Overtime in the Boss's Bed

‘Is the job still available?’

‘Very available.’

There it was—the first hint of something more than a job interview, a subtle reminder of what they’d shared laced through his smoother-than-caramel voice.

And in that instant it all came flooding back. Every magical moment of their night together. Every cataclysmic, erotic detail.

How he’d stroked her to orgasm with his fingers, his tongue.

How he’d made her feel wanton and wicked and alive for the first time in for ever.

How he’d made love to her standing and sitting and in front of the bathroom mirror.

How she hadn’t slept over the last week, replaying every moment of that life-altering night.

Technically, that wasn’t right. Needing a job so badly she was now willing to work with the man she’d had an unforgettable one-night stand with rated right up there with life-altering.

Pressing her fingers to her eyes, she squeezed them shut in an attempt to block him out, blot out the enormity of all this. Spots danced and shimmered before them, and when she finally opened them, peeked between her fingers, her heart sank lower than the splits.

It was impossible to stand here and pretend to only view him as a prospective boss when she’d seen him naked.

‘Shall we start the interview?’

His mouth kicked up into a semi-smile—a simple action that slammed straight into her, its impact just as brutal as she remembered.

‘Yes, right. The interview.’

Inwardly cringing at her awkward response, she dropped her hands to her side, flexed her fingers, shook them out, mustered her best stage face.

‘What do you want to know? My typing speed? PC skills? Microsoft literate? Multi-tasker?’

Heck, she was babbling, sounding more moronic by the second, while his expression remained impassive. His gaze focussed on her with frightening clarity, and she suddenly knew she’d been a fool to mistake this man for anything other than an imperturbable, composed businessman who’d let nothing stand in his way of getting what he wanted.

‘I need you.’

‘ You need me?’

She laughed—a harsh, humourless cackle that startled a nearby magpie, which squawked in protest.

‘By the looks of this place you don’t need anybody. You’re doing quite well on your own.’

His eyes narrowed, appraising, and she squared her shoulders and tossed her hair, glad she’d gone to the trouble of blow-drying it straight.

She needed to present a confident front—something she had no trouble with on the stage. Yet here, now, standing in front of this powerful man, she felt something deep inside quiver at the enormity of what she was doing: aiming to work for a guy who’d initiated her into the joys of sex. In a big way.

‘I need a PA. Desperately.’

And she needed money. Desperately.

A win-win for them both.

If she could just forget the fact she’d had the best sex of her life with him.

She’d weighed her options and chosen to follow up his job offer when she’d withdrawn twenty bucks from an ATM this morning and seen her bank balance slip to under a hundred dollars.

Time for further job-hunting wasn’t a luxury she could afford, and his offer had niggled at the back of her mind—so tempting, so easy to chase up, so available…if only she could get past this. Him. The glorious memory of him naked that constantly flashed across her mind as she stood there.

But memories were worth nothing. The cost of starting a new life in a new city was way beyond her means if she didn’t start working ASAP, and right now she’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this for the sake of her inner vixen, cringing with embarrassment at working for a guy she’d bedded.

‘How soon could I start?’

He didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle, his expression patient, as if dealing with a problem child.

‘Immediately. You have all those skills you mentioned earlier?’

She refrained from rolling her eyes. Not good interview skills for a woman desperate for this job.

‘I’ve temped before, in my early days as a dancer. Helped pay the rent.’

‘Good.’

‘Will I need book-keeping skills? Because—’

‘Your duties may include some housekeeping, alongside the personal assistant stuff.’

‘Housekeeping? But—’

‘You’ll find your remuneration more than fair.’

He ran roughshod over her, treating her like a subordinate, and she bristled, pulling herself up to her impressive five-ten. Pity it wasn’t a patch on his six-four.

‘Thanks. How much—?’

‘And of course you’ll be living in. The cottage will be yours, as part of your salary package, for as long as you work here.’

A cottage? All hers?

The next question died on her lips as she envisaged where she’d been staying for the last week: at a friend of Kit’s, whose ramshackle inner city rental doubled as a local hangout for uni students without a place to sleep.

If she hadn’t been haunted by memories of Callum she wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway—not with the crush of bodies littering the floor, the constant doorslamming at all hours, and the noisy bodily functions of uni students existing on a diet of stale pizza and baked beans.

She’d crashed there out of desperation and a lack of funds—counted on this job to get her out, depended on it for her first decent meal, something other than instant noodles and a recycled green teabag.

‘You’re welcome to check it out.’

Inwardly shuddering at the thought of any more tasteless noodles and weak tea, she said, ‘Great.’

She followed him past the pool and a glass poolhouse, tucked behind immaculately trimmed hedges, and into a small clearing.

A small clearing that featured the most gorgeous little house she’d ever seen.

A cottage, just as he’d said, but what he’d failed to mention was its lemon rendered exterior trimmed in duck-egg blue, a criss-cross veranda housing a white wicker love-seat with striped cushions, and a border of petunias.

It was beyond cute, and the terracotta-tiled roof, reflecting the sun, seemed to shine directly into her eyes with some secret code that said Live here!

‘Go on—take a look inside.’

He flung open the door and she exhaled, confronted by paradise. Her version of paradise: buttercup walls, their rich gold depths enhanced by honey floorboards, solid pine furniture, pot belly heater, monstrous suede sofas piled high with scattered cushions and a four-poster bed straight out of a fairytale.

This wasn’t just any old ordinary cottage, no sirree. This place was a home—a place where she could start to rebuild her life, a place where she could instigate plans to get where she wanted to go.

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s nice.’

Nice? Nice? The place was a flipping palace compared to the dumpster she’d been living in the last week.

‘So you’ll take the job?’

Ah…the job…The major catch in all this.

If she wanted to live here, she needed to work for His Lordship.

Whom she’d seen in all his naked glory.

Whom she’d kissed and caressed and kept up all night.

Oh, heck.

Folding her arms, she propped herself on the back of the sofa’s headrest, ignoring how comfy it was.

‘Isn’t this at all awkward for you?’

There—she’d said it, flung it out there, trying to get a reaction out of him.

It didn’t work. He didn’t flinch, cringe, move a muscle. His expression was impassive.

‘Why? Because we slept together?’

‘You and I both know there was very little sleeping involved.’

It had been incredible—one of those once-in-a-lifetime nights that you stored away for wistful reminiscing in your old age.