Free Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) by Stephie Smith

was Wednesday, and I had to work the rest of the week. Although I liked my job just fine, it was difficult to force myself back after being off for several days. There were so many chores I needed to do at home that I actually thought about calling in sick.
    Oh, who was I kidding? This wasn’t about chores at home; I was embarrassed to face my boss, Henry Phipps. His learning of my past as a historical romance writer with a rock and roll boyfriend was bad enough, but worse was that business of my butt on display for the world to see.
    Yes, the whole world, according to my sister Marci, whose voice had trilled with excitement when she’d called to let me know it was all over the Internet and without the black dot.
    Since our business was software technology and my boss was always online, there was no chance he would have missed my little—or I should say big —humiliation.
    I got into the office early, hoping to settle into my work before anyone else showed up. Maybe they wouldn’t know I was already there but even if they did, at least the awkward morning greetings as I passed them in the hall wouldn’t happen.
    When ten o’clock came and went without anyone saying boo, I worried that I was being shunned. But then my boss arrived, acting completely normal, and he didn’t say a word about the article. I took a deep breath. Relaxing, finally, I got to work.
    As the only administrative assistant in the small company, I was in charge of every admin task. Correspondence, filing, customer mailings, press releases, scheduling, company events … Today I needed to wrap up dinner plans for the board members and key personnel. I’d received RSVPs from everyone except my boss’s wife. When the deadline passed and I hadn’t heard, I shot off a quick email to my boss asking if his wife planned to attend. He would either know the answer or would give his wife a call. Minutes later I received his response.
    No, she replied, tears streaming over high cheekbones like a river over boulders, convinced in her heart of hearts that she would never see him at a company dinner again …
    What the heck? It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Was he laughing at me? Maybe he thought he was laughing with me. Except I wasn’t laughing.
    I clicked on Reply and started to ask him to clarify, but then typed, “Did you see the article?” instead. I didn’t say which article. I was still hoping he hadn’t seen my butt.
    With great trepidation I clicked Send. His reply came back in seconds; he must have had it written and was just waiting for the chance to send it.
    Yes! Congrats … he said, his rippling, sweat-drenched torso heaving like a blacksmith’s billowing bellows …
    Oh brother. In parentheses he’d written, “You can use that if you want, and you don’t even have to give me credit.”
    Was he serious or joking? I wasn’t sure. I shook myself out of my dumbfoundedness when I realized he had sneaked up and was lounging against one side of the doorframe, his tall, lanky body somewhat awkwardly placed. His straight dark hair fell over his forehead and his round eyeglasses, which he was constantly pushing up, had slid to the bottom of his nose. I had the feeling he would push them up now, if it wouldn’t spoil his pose. I stared, speechless, as he crossed his arms negligently over his chest. I’d never seen him in such a stance.
    “You didn’t tell us you’re a famous writer,” he said with a big smile.
    A flush started creeping up my neck. Heck, it wasn’t creeping, it was sweeping. My entire face was suddenly hot. “I’m not famous. There wasn’t any reason to tell you about it.”
    “Oh, but there is. My wife loves romance novels. I’ve ordered all your books, and I want you to autograph them.”
    Please God, just shoot me now. I would absolutely die if my boss read any of my books. The sensuality level was hot. And I mean hot. What would he think when my hero fell to his knees in front of his naked, virginal