Free Filthy Rage (Second Chance With My Brother's Best Friend, Book Five) by Paige North Page A

more email, answering random client questions, setting up meetings for Dane, until he strolls into the office, wearing a black suit that looks tailored for his lean form, as usual.
    My face bursts into flames from residual guilt at the thought of my journal left here, exposed overnight. No, he might not have read my words, but I know what I wrote, and I know the way my body vibrates when I look at him.
    “Good morning, Dane,” I murmur politely as he passes by my desk.
    He flicks me the briefest of looks. “Morning, Emme.” Nothing on his face or in his body language indicates any weirdness. Okay, he seems a little more clipped than usual, but he’s often like that in the morning, when he’s in a hurry to get his day started. It could also be a hint of residual irritation at me leaving without letting him know last night, even if he said it was fine in his email to me.
    Dane goes right toward his office without a backward glance at me, and the door clicks closed behind him.
    My heart deflates a touch at the clear dismissal, and I instantly make myself shake that off. Just because I’m having these conflicted feelings for him doesn’t mean he feels anything in return or thinks about me in any other way than work-related. It’s ridiculous to hope for otherwise.
    In fact, it’s good that he’s treating me normally. I should be happy for that.
    I should be. But I’m not. Because deep down inside, a teeny, tiny part of me wondered about the possibility of him reading the journal and maybe feeling something for me too. Of him strolling in today and giving me all the things I’ve fantasized about non-stop for six months now.
    The ways I torture myself sometimes are astounding.
    I busy myself with emails and other administrative work until ten minutes before our morning meeting. Then I gather my iPad for record keeping and go to the meeting room to get it ready. I set out coffee and pastries, creamer and sugar, napkins and paper cups. Dane’s quite particular about preparation.
    And I like to please him.
    Once everything is ready, I settle into my seat on the far side of the room and quietly wait for people to arrive.
    The stream comes in slowly. Lauren, one of the younger designers, enters the room, her fiery red hair twisted in a cute bun on the back of her head as her skirt sways to mid-calf from her stride. She’s talking rapid-fire with Carl, her free hand waving in the air, and they take their seats near the front of the room.
    Lauren glances over at me and gives me a friendly, polite smile. “Good morning, Emme.”
    “Morning,” I say back with a nod. Part of me wishes I were assertive enough to get to know her better, maybe take her out for a cup of coffee and pick her brain about what it’s like being in her position, doing what I hope to be doing after grad school, but I’m not quite there yet. I still feel the difference in our levels far too keenly to try to act like I’m on par with her. It also doesn’t help that I’m a little too shy to reach out to people—or even to speak up in our meetings and offer my thoughts on the subject matter at hand.
    The one time I did talk a couple of months ago, Carl pulled me aside after the meeting and suggested in his usual patronizing tone that I stick to what I’m good at—fetching coffee and taking notes. I was mad for days afterward. But it shut me up, reminded me that I have to earn respect.
    Carl’s gaze roves over the pastries, then he looks at me with disappointment. “No donuts today?” It’s clear the lack of donuts has let him down, and therefore by extension, I let him down also. Shocker.
    A snippy retort about his ability to buy his own damn donuts if he wants them so badly, is right on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back, make myself offer a stiff smile. “Nope. But we can get some later this week if you want.”
    He’s already checked out halfway through my reply to him, turning his attention to the packet of notes in front of him.