Maisey Yates - Mistresses - After Hours With The Boss - Her Little White Lie / Their Most Forbidden Fling / An Inescapable Temptation

“Because emotion, strong emotion, is dangerous,” he said. “You don’t seem to realize that yet, Paige. But that’s the truth of it.” His voice was rough. Savage, almost. And coming from Dante, who was always smooth, and never ruffled, it meant something. It reached down deep inside of her and twisted her stomach.

“Was it the truth for you?”

“It’s just true,” he said. “If emotions control you, you have no control over yourself. In my mind, that’s unacceptable. Now come, and I’ll show you to your room.”

AFTER you put Ana to bed, come down to the dining room for dinner .

Paige touched the note Dante had left her earlier. A note. Who wrote a note? She’d have to introduce the man to the mighty power of the text message. Or, better still, making human contact when you lived in the same house as someone.

She touched one of the letters on the paper. He’d pressed too hard on his pen, made dents, each letter precise and perfect, gone over two or three times she guessed. Dante didn’t do spontaneous very well, that was for sure.

Well, she supposed their arrangement fell under spontaneous, but then, even when he’d had that headline sprung on him he hadn’t acted with any sense of wild abandon. It had been with frightening calm, and complete confidence in the fact that he’d made the right decision.

Whereas, she, after blurting out the idiot untruth to Rebecca, had eaten a pint of ice cream and spent the night beating her head against the arm of her couch.

Decisive wasn’t really her thing. She needed to start getting there, though. She had a baby. A baby that would grow, and who would need a mother who could stand strong in decisions and discipline and … stuff.

The idea of it made her a little anxious. But for now, it was all about loving her. And that she had down just fine.

At least her room was nice. And yeah, all her clothes and her toiletries were in Dante’s room, but she’d managed to get her dress for dinner and her makeup essentials over to her room without running into him. Which suited her fine. She’d been feeling a little rumpled and frumpy after what had been a very long day.

But a shower and a sparkly minidress had done a lot to fix the way she felt. Her newfound sense of flashy style was something she’d acquired on arrival in San Diego, and it had done wonders for the way she felt about herself. About the outside of herself, anyway.

She leaned into the mirror and swiped her lipstick over her bottom lip, painting it with a streak of fuchsia, then spreading it evenly. She smiled. She felt better when she was bright. Like showing the world her mood, so that she had to bring herself up to match it.

She let out a long breath and opened her bedroom door, padding quietly down the hall to Ana’s room first, to make sure she was sleeping soundly, then continued to the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time, anxious now to hear what Dante would say.

To see if he would tease her again. Flirt with her? No, he wouldn’t flirt with her. There was no reason for that.

She tripped on the last step, her focus splintered over her thoughts.

“Careful.”

She looked up and her heart slammed hard against her breast. Dante was standing in the doorway of the dining room, his eyes on her. On her nearly falling on her face. He, on the other hand, looked immaculate as always. Perfectly pressed in a crisp white shirt that was open at the collar, showing a faint shadow of chest hair that she couldn’t help but notice, and black slacks that showed off his trim waist and powerful thighs.

Since when had she ever noticed a man’s thighs? What was he doing to her?

“I like to make an entrance,” she said, doing a very lopsided curtsy in an attempt to defuse the tension. All she really succeeded in doing was making herself look like a bit of an ass. That seemed to be her specialty. But it didn’t matter really. She just kept smiling. If she didn’t care, no one else seemed to. No one else seemed to notice how hard things were, how awkward she felt, if she didn’t.

She straightened and smiled, hoping she didn’t blush.

“You certainly do that.” He walked toward her, the easy grace in his movements filling her with one part envy and nine parts desire. He really was gorgeous.

“Ha. Yeah. My blessing and my curse.”

He put his hand on her lower back and heat fired through her from that point to the rest of her body. He propelled her forward into the dining room and she was afraid she might wobble again. Not because she was that big of a klutz, not usually, but because his touch was making her limbs feel rubbery.

She sucked in a breath when she saw the table. It was laid out special—gorgeous platters with appetizers and there were candles. It was very real, suddenly. Like an actual date, which she knew it wasn’t.

And she shouldn’t let it make her feel any kind of pressure. He wasn’t interested in her that way, and that was fine with her. She didn’t have the time or inclination for it.

“This looks great,” she said, too brightly.

He pulled her chair out for her and looked at her, waiting for her. She just stared.

“Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

“Oh, uh … yes. I’m not used to men pulling my chair out for me.”

“Then you need to associate with better men.”

“Or maybe find men to associate with in general.”

“I imagine your dating life is somewhat hobbled by recent developments.”

“Yeah, recent developments. That’s what’s hobbled my dating life.” She sat down and he abandoned his post at her chair and went to sit across from her. She took a salmon roll off the platter and put it onto her plate, her stomach growling, reminding her it was late for dinner. “So,” she said, “you want to talk?”

“We need to talk. I’m not sure I particularly want to talk. But we need a plan. If we’re going to be a couple, to both child services and the media we need to know about each other.”

“And how do you propose we get to know each other?” she asked, taking a bite of the sushi.

“I’m not proposing we get to know each other. I’m proposing we learn things about each other. The two are different.”

“Less involved, I suppose,” she said.

“Much.” He took a roll off the platter with a pair of chopsticks. Effortless for him, as ever. “Where are you from?”

“Silver Creek. Oregon. Small, bit of a nothing town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone knows you. The entire population is kind of like your extended family.”

“Which is why you moved.”

“Yes. To somewhere that didn’t have people with … expectations.” Expectations of her failure. Of her continuing to drift through life without a goal, without any success. “And you, where are you from?”

“Rome originally. Then moved to Los Angeles. And then … when my mother died,” he said, his voice too smooth, too controlled, as if he was saying words he’d rehearsed to perfection, “I went into foster care. I spent a few years with different families before the Colsons adopted me at fourteen.”

“I could have found all that out by reading a bio online somewhere.”

“But had you read one?”

“No.”

“So, I still had to tell you.”

“Fine, you did. What else do I need to know?” she asked.

He slid two covered plates over from the edge of the table and placed one in front of her, and one in front of himself. She uncovered it and took a moment to appreciate the tantalizing look and smell of the fish dish before directing her focus back to Dante.

“My sign?” he asked, his tone dry.

She laughed. “I don’t even know my own sign. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”