Mr. Bossy Billioanaire and I
She shoved her work laptop into a leather briefcase and reached for the grey jacket she had slung over the back of her chair.
Grey jacket, grey calf-length skirt, flat, sensible patent pumps, and, yes, definitely tights. Not stockings. Tights. Possibly of the support variety. Who knew? It was impossible to tell what sort of figure she had under the prim ensemble, but Chase knew; he knew from head to toe. Though after six years, he wondered if something had changed. Not fat, not thin, not tall... The shirt managed to hide everything up top, and the skirt did a similar job with everything down below.
And why the hell was he looking anyway?
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