Page 8 of Devilish Bully (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #3)

THE ACCOUNTANT

KENDALL

Unable to accept my new hours, Myra has blocked the front door with chairs from the dining room and closet boxes.

Sighing, I take my time putting them back in place. Then I press a kiss on her forehead while she sleeps before penning a note on her nightstand.

This new position is only for a month & a half

I’ll treat you to an entire week of vacation when I’m done. I promise.

No babysitter this weekend, but Mindy will stop by a few times to see if you want to get out and do something fun.

Please forgive me.

Love you,

Aunt K

Making sure that I have my laptop and notebooks, I grab my jacket and step outside.

Even with a percentage of my new salary deposited into my account hours ago, I feel extremely insecure about working with a new team. Especially the C-Suite.

Rumor has it that their work hours are even more hellish than the regular employees, but unlike us they don’t have any spare seconds to complain about it.

As I’m locking the door, Mr. Pearson emerges from the driver’s side.

He’s not wearing one of his trademark suits today. Instead, he’s in a crisp white button-down rolled to the elbows, dark blue jeans molding to his frame. The sight is too casual, too intimate, and it turns me on in ways I refuse to admit.

“Good morning, Miss Clarke.” He opens the passenger door for me. “Glad to see you making the right decision.”

I move closer, but then I freeze. “I thought you said a driver was coming for me.”

“He’s feeling under the weather,” he says. “Get in.”

“I’d rather not ride with the boss,” I say. “I don’t want anyone thinking you’re giving me any favoritism.”

“After your little review stunt, I guarantee that no one will think I’m favoring you.” He rolls his eyes. “Get in the car. Now.”

“You know, I think it may be best if I take the subway for old times’ sake, you know?”

“I’m not a fan of repeating myself.”

“I’m just saying...” I swallow the worst of my word vomit. “I’m used to seeing you via screen or from afar at the big meetings, and I think it’s a little soon for us to move to the next level, you know?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Miss Clarke.” His eyes roam my body. “I would enjoy every second of tossing you over my shoulder and forcing you into my car.”

My cheeks flush red and I hesitate for a second before walking past him and slipping onto the passenger seat.

He shuts my door and slides behind the wheel, pulling onto the street.

“Can we stop somewhere for breakfast?” I ask.

“Hmmm,” he says, turning up the volume on a Financial Times podcast. “I’ll think about it.”

I’ll take that as a no.

The silence in the car hums louder than the engine. Every time I steal a glance, he’s focused on the road like a machine, his hands gripping the wheel with military precision, veins standing out as if he’s controlling more than just the car.

“You do know there are drive-thrus open at this hour, right?” I ask.

He raises a brow. “Do I look like someone who eats fast food?”

“Maybe you should give it a try,” I say. “An overload of carbs might be what you need to finally fall off your high horse.”

He smirks, but doesn’t respond to that, and the car keeps gliding past diners and coffee shops like he’s allergic to them. By the time we reach the downtown skyline, I’m starving, and he hasn’t spoken another word.

When we finally arrive, the security gates part for him without question, and we pull into a private garage beneath the Pearson Tech tower.

Inside, the building is still asleep—dark halls, echoing footsteps—until we reach the top floor.

Instead of heading inside the office where we were yesterday, he leads me down the hall and into an obscene space with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city like it’s his personal screensaver. A hidden bar gleams in the corner with bottles older than me.

There’s a fireplace, a massive desk carved from some exotic wood that probably has its own Wikipedia page, and an entire side room with a glass wall that looks more like a spa than part of a workplace.

There’s also a treadmill that looks like it belongs in NASA training, a flat screen looping stock tickers in real time, and a crystal decanter set that probably costs more than my house.

The air reeks of money and power—and of him. My pulse jumps, hating that even his office smells good.

“Okay, Miss Clarke.” He sets his briefcase down. “This is where you’ll be working until the rest of the team gets here.”

“What time do they come?”

“Noon.”

“Why can’t I get on their schedule?”

“Because you’re supposed to show me how you’d supposedly do my job better.” He takes a seat behind his desk before gesturing toward a mountain of messy files stacked on a coffee table.

“We need to read through all those purchase files and double-check them against our digital records,” he says simply. “It has to be done by morning.”

I glance at the stack and then back at him in disbelief. “So, after that, I’ll work with the team on something else?”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Clarke.” He points to an even larger stack standing in the corner. “We’ll spend the afternoon on that stack.”

“There’s no way you actually do this by yourself.” I feel my chest heaving at the thought. “You’re just trying to make a scene.”

“Not at all.” He picks up a pen, already signing something with a flourish. “But I’m glad you’re here, because now I get to split it with someone.”

I grab a file and take a seat.

Suck it up.

It’s only for six weeks…