Do-Over by Dorien Kelly

workplace diplomacy,” she suggested.
    “So you really believe we can ignore whatever’s going on between us, work side by side on this deal for the next several weeks…and not once think about it happening again?”
    “Yes?” That had come out with no certainty. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Absolutely.”
    “I don’t like this. It’s not honest.”
    She decided to give him one flat-out truth. “In the long run, Morgan, you’re not worth the hassle. And neither am I.”
    His reaction was nearly imperceptible, a brief widening of the eyes she wouldn’t have caught if she hadn’t been looking. “Is that so? Okay, we’ll have it your way.”
    Her relief was tinged with something bitter-tasting. “Fine.”
    He leaned back in his chair and scrutinized her. She had no idea what he was looking for.
    “But just in case you change your mind,” he said, “here are my terms. You want me to kiss you again, you’ll have to ask.”
    His voice had a spit-in-the-hand, double-dare-you edge to it. Weird, but her spirits buoyed and her blood starting zipping through her veins. “Like that’s ever going to—”
    “I’m not done. When I say ask, I don’t mean the classic female routine of a breathy sigh followed by nibbling on your lower lip. I want to hear ‘Mark, you were right, and I was wrong. I’d be the happiest woman in Detroit if you’d kiss me.’”
    “Just Detroit?” she scoffed. “Not the whole universe?”
    His gaze fixed on her lips. Cara watched as his brown eyes grew darker. She could almost feel the rich heat brush against one corner of her mouth, then leisurely slide across to caress her. Before she realized what she was doing, her lower lip was fast behind her front teeth. She released it, but it was far too late. Damn, he was one insidious bastard.
    A very, very satisfied gleam replaced the heat in his eyes. “And when you finally ask me for that kiss, make sure you don’t have anything planned for a long time, Cara, because when I taste you next time, it’s going to be slow, thorough and a hell of a lot more than ‘fun.’”
    She was trying to say something—she was quite sure of it—but no words came out.
    He looked away for a brief moment and then riffled through the paperwork in front of him. “Okay, since this is the way you want it, let’s get back to business. I took your commitment letter home last night and looked at it. It’s nearly perfect.”
    How could he switch it on and off like that? Maybe he truly had shark blood coursing through him. All Cara knew was that she was still locked in that promise of a slow and thorough kiss that would never, ever happen. He, on the other hand, had cut through the lingering emotion with ease.
    “Nearly perfect?” she said once she’d managed to pull herself together. “That letter is a work of art—the legal Sistine Chapel.” Having a major point to prove, she’d made sure of it when she’d drafted that letter.
    “The chapel’s paint could use a touch-up. I have a few favorite cover-your-ass clauses I want to add.” He slid the document across the table. “I’ve written themin and was hoping you wouldn’t mind doing the typing.”
    He was making it absurdly easy to forget about kissing him. In fact, she’d suggest a public flogging if she didn’t have sneaking suspicion that he’d enjoy it.
    “I mind typing. A lot.” She snatched up a working girl’s plastic pen and wrote the letter’s file name on the top of the first page, then sent it back to him. “There’s its name. You’ll find it in the Newby file I set up on the on the computer system’s G drive.”
    “Fine.” He looked as if he had wanted to say a whole lot more, but decided to exercise some diplomacy. “By the way, we’ve got a conference call scheduled with Nicole Harris at two o’clock.”
    Cara bit back a sigh. She already knew from her work on the file that Harris was a loan officer from Merchant. What she hadn’t anticipated was that the