Emmy And The Boss. Penny McCusker

a second Nick thought she was going to smile. She pressed her lips together and tapped the paper instead. That was an invitation if ever he’d seen one, so he moved in behind her again.

      “Point two,” he read. “Cross-training.” Cross-training was a pretty self-explanatory concept, but Nick let her talk so he could watch her.

      “You should make sure your employees are trained on each other’s jobs,” she said. “That way if someone is late or sick, another employee can fill in, and you can rotate the employees to keep the line running. You won’t get full production, but you won’t be dead in the water either.”

      She kept talking. Nick nodded and made understanding noises so it seemed like he was following along, but he’d given up listening for watching. Efficiency was a necessary evil for him, but he loved the way Emmy’s eyes lit up when she got into the subject. And she was really getting into it, moving around, gesturing, pushing her hair off her face. He loved it when she did that. And he loved the trim little suit she was wearing. He loved it that she was tall and passionate. All her passion was channeled into her work, but he could expand on that.

      “Point seven,” she said, “find a way to get Nick to concentrate on business while he still owns one.”

      “Uh-huh,” he said, nodding and smiling. She came over to stand in front of him and he just naturally stood a bit straighter. Okay, so he liked her tallness, as long as he was taller. He was old-fashioned about that sort of thing.

      “You’re not listening to me,” she said.

      “Yes, I am.”

      “Tell me what I just said.”

      Nick racked his brain for all of two seconds and then he grinned. “You said you’d love to go out to dinner with me tonight.”

      “I don’t have time for dinner.”

      “You’re an efficiency expert. Don’t you sit down promptly at 8:00 p.m. and eat all the food groups balanced in accordance with the current FDA nutritional pyramid?”

      “And I schedule exactly 23.6 minutes every evening so I can chew each bite forty times. Unfortunately that means I don’t have time for restaurants and meaningful conversation.”

      Translation, she didn’t have time for Nick.

      She tucked her list of observations back into the manila folder and handed it to him. “If it’s any consolation, I will go out with you now, to your factory floor.”

      He shrugged. “It’s a start.”

      The factory was a cavernous, well-lit space, big roll-up doors open to the let in the warm spring cross-breeze. Yesterday it had been decorated in industrial chic—safety posters, calendars, gray lockers, fake-wood-grain tables and metal chairs in the lunch room. Today it was decorated in Emmy Jones. Pictures of her hung everywhere, on the walls, from the rafters, on the fridge in the break room, on the sides of the conveyors. A couple of Nick’s employees even had them taped to their backs, and all of the pictures had big red targets over her face. As soon as she stepped around Nick, and the employees caught sight of her, she was greeted with a ragged chorus of whoopee-cushion raspberries.

      “I’m sorry,” Nick said to Emmy.

      “No need to apologize. This is normal.”

      “It’s normal for people who want you dead.”

      “They don’t want me dead. They’re just comfortable with the way things are. Once they understand that I’m here to make their jobs more secure, they’ll stop hating me.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Trust me, this is nothing compared to some of the things that have been done to me.”

      Even if she hadn’t been touching him voluntarily, her words would have stopped Nick. The idea of anybody doing anything mean to Emmy got his hackles up. It was a new experience for him. Except for wanting to pound Roger. “Like what?”

      “Lots of stuff has happened to my car. My tires were glued to the parking lot once, and when I worked at the forklift company it was—”

      “Up in the air.”

      “Forty feet. They made really big forklifts.” She smiled and shook her head. “It’s been filled with packing peanuts and shrink-wrapped.”

      Nick laughed. “Pretty inventive.”

      “So are these guys,” Emmy said. “They got pictures of me from somewhere.”

      “Camera phone probably.”

      “That explains all the wonderful poses. I particularly like the one where my mouth is open and one eye is shut. I look drunk.”

      “You look beautiful.”

      “That’s because the bull’s-eye hides most of my face.”

      “Nope, that’s not it. I can see your face just fine.” And he kind of liked the target. It summed up his intentions; he had her in the crosshairs and she wasn’t getting away. He might not be the most focused or driven guy in the world, but when he went after something he wanted, he generally got it. And he wanted Emmy Jones.

      

      WHEN Emmy’s doorbell rang that evening, she checked her watch. She already knew what time it was. She always knew what time it was. She checked her watch because she wasn’t expecting anyone, and no one ever called on her unexpectedly, not at seven fifty-eight in the evening. She looked out her peephole and saw Nick Porter. Mystery solved.

      Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of appointments or calling ahead or work versus personal. Nick Porter didn’t know the meaning of the word no. She could leave him standing out there until he figured it out, or she could open the door and explain it to him. She opted for the second choice, because she didn’t want him loitering on her doorstep all night—she didn’t have any doubt he’d understand why she refused to let him in, but he’d be too stubborn to go away.

      “Go away,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

      He didn’t say anything. In fact, he stared at her for so long she became self-conscious, adjusting her hooded sweatshirt, feeling her sweatpants for holes in strategic places. And when she didn’t find any she got freaked out. “What’s wrong with you?”

      “It’s not me, it’s you.”

      She covered her mouth. “Something in my teeth?” Or her nose! She moved her fingers northward, talking through them. “Be specific.”

      “You’re not wearing a suit.”

      “Okay.” Weird. “But I’m completely clothed, and I’m not working—that is, I’m working at home.” If he thought she wasn’t busy he’d never leave. “I change my clothes when I get home from work, just like normal people.”

      “I miss your legs,” he said, easing her aside and stepping into her entryway. “I like looking at them.”

      And she liked that he liked them. Bad, very bad. “They’re still there, under the sweatpants. I was going to exercise. Yoga.”

      “That explains the great legs,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you’re really flexible, too.”

      “Not so much. I’m just a beginner. I used to do aerobics, but lately I’ve been kind of…restless. I thought maybe yoga would have a calming effect.” And why she felt a need to explain that to him she had no idea. Nervous rambling, that was it. He was looking at her in that intent way he had, and she was letting her mouth run because it was better to babble than throw herself into his arms, which was what she really wanted to do.

      “Go ahead, don’t mind me.”

      “What? Oh, yoga.” Right, Emmy thought, like she was going to do Downward-Facing Dog with him around. Getting sweaty didn’t hold any appeal, either, at least not getting sweaty alone. “I think you should leave.” She held the door open, but he stuffed his hands in his pockets and grinned. And