His Treat

Having a hot boss isn't complicated or confusing at all, said no one ever . . . But all I have to do is resist for a few months. Come January, I'm flying to Paris to chase my dream of being an artist. Too bad I can't have my treat and eat it, too.

I forgot to mention . . . My hot boss was also my high school crush. Sort of. First, I wanted to crush him with gooey affection. In the end, I just plain wanted to crush him. Now he's back, and he might as well have "do not touch" printed on his chest. One tiny question: Would it count if I didn't use my hands?

Let me answer my own question. Yes, Emily, you raging horndog, it counts. Besides, my dream is practically waiting for me like a perfectly wrapped, shiny little package if I can just behave. I'd be an absolute idiot to risk that, and I have a long, proud history of not being an idiot to protect.

But all I have to do is one quick job for him. A few posters and a few props for a big Halloween party that he's hosting.

Then I just walk away from his dreamboat eyes and perfect body, grab a plane, and forget about all the beautiful children we could've squeezed inside our white picket fence.

Contains mature themes.