Who's the Boss? & Her Perfect Stranger: Who's The Boss? / Her Perfect Stranger

Caitlin didn’t get the joke. “I’m sorry about the zip drive,” she whispered.

Silence. Apparently, for once not even Tim, Andy or Vince had anything positive or hopeful to say.

Instead, they all looked in unison at Joe, their expressions filled with the uneasy worry one gives another before shipping him off to the mental ward.

Joe sniffed, straightened, took a deep breath and said, “Well, shit. I guess it’s lunchtime.”

“Really, Joe?”

He looked directly at Caitlin, his eyes hooded. “Yeah. What the hell.”

Relief and hope surged, made her laugh a little giddily. In that moment, Caitlin forgot that he didn’t like silly, untrained women, and that she didn’t like hard, know-it-all men who looked too tasty for their own good.

Maybe, just maybe, this would work out after all.

That’s when the coffeemaker, still plugged in, burst into flames.

4

LUNCH SHOULD HAVE been simple. After they’d gotten rid of the fire department, the five of them—Vince, Tim, Andy, Joe and Caitlin—all piled into Vince’s van.

But Tim and Andy couldn’t decide on a place, and Vince kept making the wrong turn when Joe would call out directions. This would have normally greatly amused Caitlin, except for the fact she was pressed up close in the seat next to Joe.

Actually, plastered was more like it.

She found it a bit unsettling to feel the solid power of him against her, to realize how big he really was. And given the rigid way he held himself so as to minimize contact, he was obviously every bit as aware of her as she was of him.

“Wait! That way,” Tim yelled, and the van swerved as Vince made the turn.

Caitlin could feel the strain in Joseph’s body as he tried to remain completely upright and away from her. He didn’t quite succeed and at the next quick turn, which came without warning, he had to lift an arm to the back of her seat to brace himself rather than fall directly on her. Still, his jean-clad thigh pressed against her. Their sides were glued together. She was surrounded by him, by his warmth, by his strength.

He smelled like burned coffee.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly, and tried to pull back just as the van turned in the opposite direction, landing Caitlin practically in his lap.

“It’s okay.” She shot him a smile in spite of how her stomach tightened as the bare skin of his sinewy, tanned arm rubbed against her softer, much lighter one.

Their gazes met and Caitlin’s smile faded. So did Joseph’s. She pulled back, straightened herself. Joe withdrew his arm from around her, but he moved slowly, and she felt his fingers trace lightly over the back of her neck as he did.

She shivered.

Joe frowned at his hand as if he’d lost control of it and if he felt half of what she had begun to feel, then she completely understood.

* * *

THEY ENDED UP at one of her favorite restaurants.

Only problem was, everyone in southern California apparently wanted to eat there, too. Her nerves immediately reacted to the thought of waiting for a table in the packed bar, pressed tight against the man she tried to convince herself she disliked.

Caitlin would never be sure how it happened, but somehow she ended up at a cozy table for two—with Joe. The others had gotten a table on the other side of the restaurant, quickly and eagerly abandoning her in their haste for pasta.

Joe, looking slightly pained—and who could blame him? Caitlin wondered wildly—tried valiantly to smile at her.

She couldn’t dredge one up in return. “I’m sorry about the coffeemaker.”

“The fire chief said it wasn’t your fault,” he reminded her. “The cord was frayed, just a fire waiting to happen.”

“Yes,” she said miserably, blocking out the pleasantly noisy crowd around them. “But the zip drive…can’t blame that on a frayed cord.”

“It’s done, Caitlin. Forget it.”

She froze, stared at him over her menu. “What?”

“I said, it’s done. Forget it.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not that. The other.”

“What other?”

“You used my name,” she breathed, some of her innate good humor returning. “Without that big old frown on your face.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did so. Oops, never mind. The frown is back.”

They sat in silence. After a moment, Joe asked, “Was there something wrong with me being friendly?”

“No. Not at all. It was kinda…nice. Unexpected, but nice.”

“I don’t mean to be…unnice.”

“I know.” And she did. Somehow, she just brought out the worst in him.

He started to lift his water glass, but looked at his hand with a small wince instead.

“Oh, Joe, you’re hurt from the glass! I’d forgotten.” Grabbing his hand, she studied the base of his thumb. A cut marred the tough skin.

“It’s nothing.” He tried to pull his hand back, but she held firm as guilt and regret washed over her.

“I know I keep saying this,” she told him. “But I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, she lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm, directly beneath the injury. “There.”

Joe blinked, stunned, as heat and something far more purled low in his gut. Those full red lips lingered on his skin, making him instantly hard. He had to remind himself that he was reacting naturally to the outer package that made up Caitlin. Not the inner one—the airhead, the destroyer of offices. He cleared his throat. “Is that supposed to make it better?”

That quirky, contagious grin of hers crossed her face. “I think so. Or at least, I hope so. I always…” Her smile faded. “I always wanted someone to do that to my hurts. Silly, huh?”

That quick, sharp pang in his chest was heartburn—not in any way empathy. He assured himself of this. Promised himself. “No, it’s not silly.”

“Did it work? Does it feel better?”