Waking Up with the Boss Read Free

name.
    She looked him over. “In that getup, you really could be him.”
    â€œOh, sure.” He mocked the comparison, even if he was flattered by it. “Maybe I should get a Porsche like his, the one he smashed himself up in.”
    She sucked in her breath, as if the wind had just been knocked out of her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
    â€œI was just goofing around.” And being stupid, he supposed. He should’ve known that she wouldn’t think his comment was funny. “It was a great car, a 550 Spyder that he was driving on his way to a race. That’s a pretty good reason for me to get one.”
    She stared at him, unmoving, unblinking. “I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
    He leaned against the doorjamb, trying to ease the tension.
    â€œAre you going to invite me in to see your clothes?” For now, she was wearing shorts and a loose-fitting khaki shirt, with her strawberry blond hair fastened into a ponytail at her nape. He imagined undoing the clip and running his hands through it. She had the silkiest-looking hair, with each piece always falling into place. Not that he should be thinking about messing up her hair. He was supposed to be keeping those types of thoughts in check.
    â€œYes, come on in.” She stepped back to allow him entrance. The brightly lit interior featured hardwood floors and attractive window treatments. She’d decorated with art deco furnishings from the era of the building, mixed with crafty doodads. He noticed a patchwork quilt draped over the sofa. He knew she liked to sew. Sometimes she gave the quilts she made to the other women in the office, for birthdays and whatnot.
    â€œYou’ve done a nice job with the place,” he said.
    â€œThank you.” She had yet to relax. She still seemed bothered by what he’d said earlier.
    Now he wished he could take it back. Not his interest in the Porsche, but the way he’d joked about it. He hooked his sunglasses into the V of his shirt, and she frowned at him.
    â€œDo you race cars because you have a death wish?” she asked, rather pointedly.
    Cripes, he thought. She had it all wrong. “I do it to feel alive.” Everything he did was for that reason. “I don’t want to look back and regret anything.”
    â€œI hope that’s the case.”
    â€œBelieve me, it is.” After waiting for the smoke to clear, he gestured to the quilt. “When I was a kid, we had one sort of like that hanging on our living room wall that my paternal grandmother made.”
    Carol inched closer to him. “You did?”
    He nodded. “She died before I was born, but the design was associated with her clan.”
    â€œDo you still have it, tucked away somewhere?”
    He shook his head. “It disappeared when I went into foster care. It was sold, I suppose. Or given away, or whatever else happened to my family’s belongings.” He glanced at the fireplace mantel, where he spotted a framed photograph of what he assumed was her family: three towheaded girls and a forty-something mom and dad, posing in a park.
    He picked up the picture and quietly asked, “Are you in this?”
    â€œYes,” she replied, just as softly. “I’m the older sister. I was about ten there.”
    He studied the image. Everyone looked happy. Normal. Like his family had been. But he didn’t keep photos around. He couldn’t bear to see them every day.
    Jake was lucky that he’d bonded with Garrett and Max. They’d been a trio of troubled boys in foster care who’d formed a pact, vowing to get powerfully rich and help one another along the way. The goal had ultimately allowed them to become the successful men they were today. Without Garrett and Max, Jake would’ve wanted to die, for sure.
    He wondered if anyone had helped Carol get through her grief or if she’d done it on her own. They rarely talked about their