I don’t think Rose likes me very much. And I don’t know why that thought bugs the hell out of me. She needs a desk plate that reads: Rose Thorne, Administrative Assistant, and a fucking thorn in my side.

  What’s not to like about me? I wouldn’t say I’m a cocky guy—oh wait, can I say cocky?

  Let’s start over, I wouldn’t say I’m an arrogant guy. I’m not haughty or conceited. I just know how to get things done, in the best possible way. Except, right now. Instead of preparing for my first client, angry sex is all I can think about.     Angry sex with Rose.

  Her cheeks flame the same rich hue as her hair when she takes the square piece of paper from my fingers. “Thanks,” she says, with no elaboration as to its meaning.

  “Is that regarding a client?” I dig for info, knowing it’s not. But, as a sex therapist, it’s highly possible this could be related to one of my patients, so my question is valid, even if I’m only interested in how it pertains to Rose.

  Wide-eyed, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. “Um, no.”

  Still no elaboration. Rooted to the marble floor, I slide my hands in my pockets. Obviously I can’t ask her, because that would be unprofessional, so the right thing to do in this situation would be to just fucking tell me. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and then not explain. I’m sure her silence is because she doesn’t like me, and our lack of a copacetic working relationship is her fault, really. If she didn’t walk around looking like sex on legs, I wouldn’t have to send her out on errands, just so I can breathe. It’s the fiery hair combined with dick stiffening glasses. I can’t not look at her.

  I don’t like being attracted to my assistant, and I like even less she couldn’t care less. And now I have to deal with this angry sex thing. A condom study I once read showed that women with red hair are more likely to be into bondage and kink. What exactly is she doing? And with who?

  Again, she’s a fucking thorn in my side.

  What was I thinking hiring her?

  I knew the moment she walked in, she was trouble. But I can’t fire her now, and I sure as hell can’t sleep with her. The only thing I can really do is boss her around, so I take great pride in that.

  “Ok,” I take another approach and perch on the edge of her desk, “is there something you’d like to talk about, Rose?”

  Startled blue eyes lift from her computer screen. They are an arresting shade behind the black frames she sometimes wears, like someone took the raging sea and filled her iris.

  “Not really,” she says, a little dumbfounded at my question. “Thanks for asking.”

  “Ah. You sure?”

  Her quieter than usual attitude is pricking under my skin like a thousand needles. Is it so hard to acknowledge my presence? Normally, I don’t dwell on these things, but for some reason it irks me that she shuns me as if I’m a toxic virus.

  She stands. “Positive. I have to run and make some copies before Mrs. Carter arrives.” Her vibrant red hair hustles past me. I probably stare a beat too long at the way her black slacks fondle her ass.  There’s no probably, I do. She’s turning me into a human resource nightmare. I’d replace her if she weren’t so damn efficient. I’ve never been so organized and horny in all my life. Well, fine. I don’t need her to talk to me.