Page 5

Not to mention that every time I run into him in the cafeteria, he just stares at me. But when I show up with Miguel or the boys, he takes off immediately.
I’m incredibly tied up today. My cagey supervisor has given me hundreds of pages to deal with. Like always, she doesn’t seem to remember that Miguel, as Mr.Zimmerman’s administrative assistant, should be handling 50 percent of our work.
When it’s time for lunch, the object of my wet dreams pops out of his office and, after staring at me once more, goes into my supervisor’s office without knocking. Two seconds later, the two of them emerge together to head to lunch.
When I’m left alone, I finally relax. I don’t know what my problem is with this man, but his presence raises my temperature, making my blood boil.
After I straighten up my desk a bit, I decide to go out to lunch myself. But the stress of the paperwork waiting for me is such that I have lunch quickly and return right away.
Back at my desk, I shove my bag in a drawer, grab my iPod, and put in my earbuds. If there’s one thing I like in this life, it’s music. My mother taught my father, my sister, and me that music is the only thing that tames the beast and helps troubles disappear. That is one of her many legacies, and it may be why I adore music and spend all day humming and singing along.
Weighed down with file folders, I go into Ms.Sánchez’s office and open the archive room. It also opens into Mr.Zimmerman’s office, but since I know he’s not there, I relax and file as I sing along to my music.
“Miss Flores, your singing is terrible.”
That voice. That accent.
I’m so startled that I drop the folder I am holding. I bend to pick it up, and, damn, I bump my head against him. Against Mr.Zimmerman. My embarrassment must show clearly on my face. I take out my earbuds and stare up at him.
“I’m sorry, Mr.Zimmerman,” I mutter.
“It’s OK.” Taking liberties, he touches my forehead and asks, “Are you OK?”
I nod like a bobblehead. Yet again, he’s asked me if I’m OK. Oh God! I can’t help it when my eyes (and my whole being) give him the once-over: tall, brown hair with blond highlights, thirty-something, sinewy, blue eyes, a deep and sensual voice ... in other words, one very fine specimen.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”
I shake my bobblehead again. I must be an idiot. I get up off the floor, the folder in my hand. “Has Mrs.Sánchez come back yet?”
“Yes.”
Surprised, because I haven’t heard her come in, I start to leave, when he grabs my arm.
“What were you singing?”
The question is so startling, I almost say, “What do you care?” Fortunately, I control my impulse.
“A song.”
He smiles. My God, what a smile!
“I know ... I like the lyrics. What’s the name of the song?”
“‘Black and White’ by Malú, sir.”
But it seems my words amuse him. Is he laughing at me?
“Now that you know who I am, you call me ‘sir’?”
“Forgive me, Mr.Zimmerman,” I say in a professional tone. “I didn’t recognize you in the elevator. But now that I know who you are, I think I should address you appropriately.”
He takes a step toward me, and I take two steps back. What’s he doing?
He takes another step. I try to do the same but end up against the wall. There’s no way out. He’s practically on top of me, bending down to my eye level. Mr.Zimmerman, the same sexy guy into whose mouth I stuck a piece of strawberry gum just a few days ago.
“I liked you more when you didn’t know who I was,” he whispers.
“Sir, I ...”