Read Online Return of the Bad Boy by Paige North - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paige North
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manage to direct him toward the law firm with little trouble. He pulls into a spot on a narrow cobblestoned street behind Fowler’s fire-engine red Porsche with the LITIG8 license plate.
By that time, my stomach is twisted in knots. Of course Mr. Fowler is here on a Sunday. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pull my hair out of the ponytail, fluff it, and scuff my feet into my heels. “I shouldn’t be long,” I murmur, gnawing on my lip.
He jumps out of the car and leans against it, eyes darting all over the place as if he hasn’t a clue what to look at first. “Take your time,” he says, gnawing on the stick of his blow pop and checking out my boss’ ride. As he does, two women in business suits do a double take and check him out .
I can’t blame them. This city has much to offer, but he’s the best looking thing on the street (and any other street in a fifty mile radius). The way his butt looks in those jeans? Criminal. I feel a chill snake down my back as I push open the door and think, Dax Harding is waiting for me.
Who the hell cares? Maybe in high school, that would’ve been a badge of honor for a girl, but he’s still just as immature as ever.
Immature but also really hot, with an insanely muscular, drool-worthy body and heavenly eyes that you can see your whole future in.
I try my best not to fixate on Dax as I get into the office building.
I rush up the stairs. When I get upstairs, of course, the door to Fowler’s office is open and the light is on. I manage to skitter past it and slide into my cubicle without hearing his annoyingly nasal voice call my name. Breathing a sigh of relief, I start to tear the cubicle apart, looking for the Mason Daniel brief. My cubicle is about the size of a closet, but that doesn’t make the brief any easier to find. I have files stacked on every surface. I start in all the usual places, like the filing cabinet, then move on to all the unusual places, like the waste bin and under the desk. Meanwhile, I’m sweating and my face is getting hotter.
I sit on the floor of my cubicle, gasping for breath. Where the hell is the file?
Finally, I get to my feet and shakily make my way to Fowler’s office. I take a deep breath and am just about to knock on his door when I realize the leather chair behind the desk in his enormous corner office is empty. Creeping in, I sigh. The guy is a complete disaster. He talks about me not having my shit together, but his desk is a mess. It’s a wonder he can find—
I stop.
I reach down, under a pile of papers, and pull out a thick red folder. The tab says, in my neat handwriting, Mason Daniel.
It was in his damn office the whole time, if he’d ever bothered doing even the slightest bit of looking for it.
“Katherine,” a voice booms behind me.
I jump. I whirl to see Mr. Fowler, dressed in his 3-piece suit as if it’s an ordinary weekday. I’m holding the file in my death grip. “I—“
He looks down at the folder. “It’s about time you found that. You’re lucky Jones’ doesn’t have your ass for that stunt.”
“But I—“
He holds up a finger and flicks off the banker’s lamp on his desktop. “I’m on my way to a lunch meeting. Walk with me. Let’s have a talk.”
I swallow. His “talks” are never pleasant things. It’s never a conversation. It’s mostly just him yelling at me, mile-a-minute, like gunfire. But I scurry after him in the narrow hallway as he strides importantly down the hallway, adjusting the collar of his expensive custom suit jacket.
No small talk, no asking after my family. Instead he says, “You understand you very nearly lost your job for that stunt?”
Stunt. He keeps calling it that, as if I planned it, as if I was ski-jumping over sharks for their amusement or something. “But you see, I found the folder on your desk.”
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
In that instant, I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to accuse me of lying. I can see it in those cloudy eyes
By that time, my stomach is twisted in knots. Of course Mr. Fowler is here on a Sunday. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pull my hair out of the ponytail, fluff it, and scuff my feet into my heels. “I shouldn’t be long,” I murmur, gnawing on my lip.
He jumps out of the car and leans against it, eyes darting all over the place as if he hasn’t a clue what to look at first. “Take your time,” he says, gnawing on the stick of his blow pop and checking out my boss’ ride. As he does, two women in business suits do a double take and check him out .
I can’t blame them. This city has much to offer, but he’s the best looking thing on the street (and any other street in a fifty mile radius). The way his butt looks in those jeans? Criminal. I feel a chill snake down my back as I push open the door and think, Dax Harding is waiting for me.
Who the hell cares? Maybe in high school, that would’ve been a badge of honor for a girl, but he’s still just as immature as ever.
Immature but also really hot, with an insanely muscular, drool-worthy body and heavenly eyes that you can see your whole future in.
I try my best not to fixate on Dax as I get into the office building.
I rush up the stairs. When I get upstairs, of course, the door to Fowler’s office is open and the light is on. I manage to skitter past it and slide into my cubicle without hearing his annoyingly nasal voice call my name. Breathing a sigh of relief, I start to tear the cubicle apart, looking for the Mason Daniel brief. My cubicle is about the size of a closet, but that doesn’t make the brief any easier to find. I have files stacked on every surface. I start in all the usual places, like the filing cabinet, then move on to all the unusual places, like the waste bin and under the desk. Meanwhile, I’m sweating and my face is getting hotter.
I sit on the floor of my cubicle, gasping for breath. Where the hell is the file?
Finally, I get to my feet and shakily make my way to Fowler’s office. I take a deep breath and am just about to knock on his door when I realize the leather chair behind the desk in his enormous corner office is empty. Creeping in, I sigh. The guy is a complete disaster. He talks about me not having my shit together, but his desk is a mess. It’s a wonder he can find—
I stop.
I reach down, under a pile of papers, and pull out a thick red folder. The tab says, in my neat handwriting, Mason Daniel.
It was in his damn office the whole time, if he’d ever bothered doing even the slightest bit of looking for it.
“Katherine,” a voice booms behind me.
I jump. I whirl to see Mr. Fowler, dressed in his 3-piece suit as if it’s an ordinary weekday. I’m holding the file in my death grip. “I—“
He looks down at the folder. “It’s about time you found that. You’re lucky Jones’ doesn’t have your ass for that stunt.”
“But I—“
He holds up a finger and flicks off the banker’s lamp on his desktop. “I’m on my way to a lunch meeting. Walk with me. Let’s have a talk.”
I swallow. His “talks” are never pleasant things. It’s never a conversation. It’s mostly just him yelling at me, mile-a-minute, like gunfire. But I scurry after him in the narrow hallway as he strides importantly down the hallway, adjusting the collar of his expensive custom suit jacket.
No small talk, no asking after my family. Instead he says, “You understand you very nearly lost your job for that stunt?”
Stunt. He keeps calling it that, as if I planned it, as if I was ski-jumping over sharks for their amusement or something. “But you see, I found the folder on your desk.”
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
In that instant, I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to accuse me of lying. I can see it in those cloudy eyes
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