Then a strangled groan escaped his lips.
Speaking of hard.
“Told you,” she said.
Her voice sounded a mile away. Probably because all he could hear was the thundering of his blood supply as it traveled from his brain to his lap. He should tell her, or at least avert his eyes. But no amount of self-talk enabled him to look away.
Either she’d purposely undone it, or a button had wriggled free of its closure, because when she’d leaned over him, her shirt gapped open, giving him an eyeful. He clamped on to the armrests on his chair, eyes delving into all the smooth skin laid out before him like rolling fields and amber waves of grain. He had no idea of the bevy of femininity she’d been hiding beneath those poly-cotton shirts of hers. But now he had proof.
Two handfuls of C-cup proof.
Crickitt continued to caress his temples, completely unaware that with each stroke, she sent his blood pressure rising.
Shutting his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried to think of something, anything, else, but the persistent image of her breasts encased in a—God help him—black lace bra had burned into his retinas and was currently playing on the screen of his eyelids.
“Better?” she asked.
“Mm-hm,” he grunted, wondering if steam was billowing from his ears.
“Give it five minutes.” Her voice was low, husky, sexy. She slid her hands away to rearrange his hair, the innocuous touch sending a drove of blazing hormones straight to the Promised Land.
He spun out of her touch and promptly pulled his chair to his desk to hide his now obvious reaction to her.
“You look better already,” she said, propping her hands on her hips.
The opening in her shirt was far less exaggerated but no less erotic.
“Thank you,” he said, finally finding his voice. It took every ounce of willpower he owned to keep his eyes on her face. She’d gone beyond driving him crazy, he was there. Fit-me-with-a-straitjacket-and-call-me-Patsy mad about her. But what, exactly, could he do about it? She was standing in his office. He was in no position to act on any of his impulses.
She turned to the guest chair and lifted a manila folder. “I didn’t come in here to massage your head, believe it or not.”
Or sleep with me, he thought numbly. “Of course not,” he said, grateful he hadn’t blurted out the thought. “What do you have for me? I mean, to give me? I mean…to show me.” He pointed at the folder rather than attempt to rephrase.
“MajicSweep notes from this afternoon,” Crickitt said, smiling, blessedly clueless to the lust-monster hiding beneath his desk.
“Hey, okay. Great. Thank you,” he bumbled, his brain still off-line.
“You’re welcome.”
He sensed an ellipsis. He hoped she didn’t bring up her phone conversation. If she started sharing, some of his discombobulated thoughts might accidentally burble to the surface.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, gesturing toward his office door. “I do have a few things to prepare before the meeting.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the door, back at him. “Of course you do. Sorry to interrupt.” She waved her hands in a flustered manner as she walked away, making him feel like a complete jackass.
Which he was.
“Crickitt?” he called after her.
She turned, raising her eyebrows. “Yes?”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he said.
She smiled. “Glad I could help.”
“I mean it,” he mumbled, flitting his eyes away. She’d reached into the muck and pulled him out, fished him from the refuse floating in the dingy waters of his soul. It was no small feat, and she hadn’t even been trying. And there was no way to tell her that without sounding certifiable. So instead, he pointed at his scalp. “Good as new.”
“Well, if it comes back, you know where to find me,” she said, then stepped out of his office.
He shook his head and opened the folder on his desk. “Yeah,” he muttered to himself, “I do.”
Chapter 14
The afternoon meeting with “Team Townsend” went smoothly.
And Shane had successfully pulled out of the cloud fogging his brain earlier. Not that Crickitt was ever a far-off thought. He’d seen her blurry figure rushing down the hall a couple of times. It’d taken some doing to focus on the projects littering his desk, but once he dove in, thoughts of his father receded into the distance, leaving him feeling more in control than he’d been earlier.
“’Night,” Crickitt called as she passed by his office.