LITMIR.BIZ

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start-up and learned more than curse words. The same gossip suggests we may be under intensive FBI scrutiny as a result. Color me skeptical. Tampons aren’t terrorist weapons unless it’s five minutes before midnight, the store is closing and you’ve forgotten which kind you were sent to fetch.

      “What are you doing here?” She squints at me from her desk cave, pulling her cardigan around her.

      I pluck her glasses off the top of her desk and extend them to her. With my other hand, I extend the coffee cup to her. “Getting a head start on my Monday to-do list.”

      She pops the glasses onto her nose and grabs the cup. She’s remarkably composed for someone busted sleeping on the floor. “A for effort, Mr. King.”

      “Are you coming out?”

      I shove my hand at her. It’s reflex, a vestigial trace of gentlemanliness instilled by my mother, and honestly, I expect Lola to ignore me. It isn’t easy being a girl boss and I hate that Silicon Valley so often put its women entrepreneurs through the wringer. Women have to play harder, fight dirtier and put up with stupid male shit because some of the most successful guys I know haven’t progressed beyond dirty jokes and hoping to score. To my surprise, though, she places her fingers into mine.

      It’s the first time she’s touched me intentionally. She crash-landed on me and we shook hands at my interview, but those don’t count. We’ve also bumped shoulders, brushed arms. But this is different because she’s chosen to put her hand in mine when touching isn’t forced by gravity or dictated by good manners.

      This is deliberate.

      The heat from her fingers scorches my skin. Why do I want this woman? My brain yells that it’s a very bad idea, that I should step back, walk away, walk out of this building and Lola’s life and away from whatever it is I think I’m doing here.

      Which is making a mistake. Making the worst possible, horribly awful, so-wrong-it’s-good mistake.

      I tighten my grip anyhow. She’s my boss, or thinks she is. We’re in the office, and offices are officially a sex-free zone. But the seconds tick away, my fingers holding hers, and she says nothing. Or maybe like me, she doesn’t know what to say. Because my whole body’s tight, on full alert and begging for more. She just breathes harder, or maybe that’s my imagination.

      I stroke my thumb against the palm of her hand as I pull her forward and up onto her knees. Her hand twitches in mine. She’s waiting for me to do more, and I’m waiting for her to stop me. To drop my hand, to tell me to go away, to leave and to never come back. I’m bigger, larger and standing over her. She’s shorter, smaller and kneeling in front of me. I take the decent half step back although I hate retreating. Sounds filter in from the outside world—the whir of pigeons sounding off and the Spanish bark of the snack vendors trundling their carts up and down the street. There’s no air in here. Just heat and each of us waiting for the other to make a move because there’s too much at stake to be the first.

      “Sometime today, Mr. King.” Her firm voice breaks our standoff. She looks up at me, and I have no idea what she sees.

      Heart pounding, I pull her up slowly. Lola’s on the tall side for a woman, maybe five feet seven inches, and she’s got a few curves. She says nothing about the helping hand even though she’s spent the last two weeks roasting my balls about not being a team player. Or maybe it’s because she almost-not-quite brushes said balls in her upward trajectory. Or maybe I’m just an asshole. But whatever the reason, my dick makes like the Grinch’s heart having a Christmas revelation and grows three sizes.

      Lola’s chest rises and falls rapidly and she stumbles as she comes to her feet. And then somehow she manages to lose her balance entirely and crash-lands on my chest. It’s not my fault because I’m off balance, too, not expecting her to fall. But she does and my brain promptly goes off-line. If I had to pick a word, it would be soft. She’s got great tits and she’s not wearing a bra—just two layers of soft, fluffy fabric.

      She barks something. It might be Russian or back off, King. I hesitate, however, to let go of her hand and her waist—somehow, yes, I’m groping the waistband of her leggings—because letting go means she definitely falls and her LZ will be me or the floor. And part of me wants to let her go, let her fall, and then I’ll fall with her and take her right there on the floor.

      “What are you doing?” She slaps her hands behind her, bracing herself against the desktop. There’s too little space between us. Our thighs bump, our knees brush.

      “Saving your ass.”

      I set my own hand beside her hip and my thumb brushes black cotton. I still want to fight with her, but now I want to strip her down, too. Make her admit that she wants me, too. My balls tighten. My finger traces her hip, finding the line of her hips but no panties beneath the cotton. Is she commando? Dirty, dirty girl.

      She hasn’t said no.

      She hasn’t said go.

      Her eyes lock on to mine. “Do you have a white knight complex?”

      I smirk. “Knights were supposed to be chaste, Ms. Jones.”

      Angry color flags her cheeks. “You suck.”

      “An interesting professional assessment. I’ll give you mine. Your problem is that you think you like to be in charge. That you have to tell other people what to do or you won’t like the results. Here’s some free advice for you. Independence has teeth and it likes to bite people in the ass.”

      Her eyes narrow. “Really, Mr. King?”

      “Why, yes, Ms. Jones.” I snap my teeth at her.

      “Because based on your work here, you very much prefer to work alone.”

      “I’ve finished both of my projects.”

      “They were group projects,” she hisses, pulling off her glasses. “You were supposed to be collaborating with other members of the Calla team. Instead, you just went ahead and did them yourself.”

      “They’re done.” Point. Made.

      Her pretty mouth tightens. “Perhaps your coworkers would have had valuable insights.”

      “I knew exactly how to handle those projects,” I tell her. “You know it. I know it. You should be grateful to get that kind of work for twenty bucks an hour.”

      “You are an intern.” She glares at me, trying to set my hair on fire with her eyes. “You are supposed to be learning.”

      “And I am.” In the past two weeks, I’ve learned that fetching coffee sucks, that I dislike taking orders even more than I thought I would (which is a lot) and that working two jobs is exhausting (so my hat’s off to all of you who are doing it). Oh, and that I can program circles around anyone here at Calla.

      She leans forward. “Name one thing that you’ve learned.”

      I wink at her. “That I’m the best programmer you have. You should promote me now.”

      Her eyebrows practically marry her hairline. “Are you serious?”

      I smile innocently. “One thousand percent.”

      “One thousand percent is impossible,” she scoffs. “Plus, you’ve only been here two weeks!”

      “I move fast and I’m great.” This is like the fortune cookie game, where everyone breaks open his or her cookies and reads the fortune out loud before adding in bed to the end of it.

      She just shakes her head. “You have to learn to work in a team.”

      “Why?”

      “Because it’s important. Because life is not an individual event.” And then she pulls out the big guns. “Because I said so.”

      “You are the boss from hell.”

      “How?” She actually throws her hands up in the air. “There

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