Free A Measure of Discipline by Diane Adams Page B

needed to be done, and as beginners, they were only getting the most basic instruction that day. Everything I had to do was piling up. I hadn’t even opened the mail in my inbox or checked my e-mail. Getting out of here today would be a nightmare. I focused on the fact that I only had seven and a half days to go and then I’d be done for good. The idea heartened me. I pulled a Hershey bar out of my drawer and called it lunch.
     
    I buried myself in work and forgot all about the next trainee until I heard the knock on my door. It was a much firmer knock than the previous one, and I found hope that the morning filled with mindless chatter was not about to be repeated.
     
    “Come on in,” I called, intent on finishing up what I was working on. I didn’t look up when I heard the door close.
     
    “Where can I put this?” a male voice asked. I glanced to where he stood, loaded backpack in hand. I forgot what I was doing because my gaydar went crazy and my mouth went dry. “Are you okay?” he asked. His tone suggested that he doubted my level of intelligence, and I realized I was staring at him. Dark blue slacks pressed into a sharp crease belted around a narrow waist. French blue button-down tucked in neatly, the open white collar revealing a strong throat encircled by a gold chain. A small diamond stud in each ear and shaggy dark hair curling over his forehead and collar. Brown eyes surrounded by lush black lashes dancing with intelligence and a smile that killed every thought I had in my head but one: Holy crap, he was hot.  
     
    “Yeah, I’m good,” I managed to say. “Just drop it there by the door.” He let the strap of the loaded bag drop from his shoulder into his hand and then to the floor with a thump. He leaned to get a notebook and pen out of the front pocket, and I stared at the way his slacks slid smoothly over his ass. When he turned back to face me, he grinned, and his dancing brown eyes said they knew exactly what I was thinking. My cheeks colored slightly; I was sure he did know what was going on in my head. It certainly wasn’t original.
     
    I stood to let him have my chair. The only way to learn and remember the complexity of working with the records was to do it. He didn’t sit. He stared back at me, his appraisal as frank as mine had been. A smile curled the corner of his mouth, and my heart stuttered. He looked like Able.
     
    Able was my ex-boyfriend’s uncle, and arguably the hottest guy I’d ever known. It wasn’t just his looks. It was his attitude, the way he moved, his approach to life. It was in his awareness and acceptance of himself as a person, something I’d never enjoyed. I was hard on myself, and I never lived up to my own expectations. Whatever it was that made Able so irresistible to me, this young man had in spades. He looked so much like Able it was distracting. They shared the same hair, same eyes, same mouth shape; I was here alone with a young, hopefully single Able. My dick took immediate interest and my face burned.
     
    My reaction surprised me: I don’t blush. It’s been a long time since I was naïve enough to get embarrassed about anything. I have no trouble approaching someone who attracts me and letting him know it. However, in my office alone with a college kid I was supposed to be training was not the place for expressing interest. It could be the place where I was sued for sexual harassment if I wasn’t careful. I was too close to the end to fuck it up now, but God, he was hot.
     
    “Ashton,” he said stepping between the desk and the chair, much too close to me as he held out his hand. He turned the full force of his grin on me. “Don’t say anything; just call me Ash.” I shut my mouth on the comment that my roommate Z’s current set of boobs was an Ashton, and shook his hand instead.
     
    “Nice to meet you. I’m Taylor,” I told him. His hand was warm and his grip firm. My stupid brain immediately translated how that grip would feel