Crossing Hathaway Read Online Free PDF

and end up with a mental photograph of it.
    “Mr. Hathaway?” My voice echoed in the dim room. Eerie shadows danced along the walls as clouds drifted across the sun beyond the blinds. My pulse took up at a run.
    What now? Should I just leave the coffee and bolt?
    The door slammed shut right behind me. I jumped and whirled around.
    “What are you doing here?” a deep voice demanded.
    I squealed. My fingers clamped around the coffee so hard the lid popped off, spilling the scalding liquid over my hand and all over Mr. Hathaway’s crisp, white shirt.
    “Oh, fuckballs!”
    I managed to rush to the computer desk and set the cup down before any more spilled, clutched my hand to my chest and groaned through the agony.
    “You clumsy fool!” Mr. Hathaway growled. “Look at the carpet! And this is a brand-new shirt.”
    I scowled, still cradling my hand. “What did you think was going to happen, Mr. Genius, sneaking up on me? And screw your carpet, I burned my hand.” When I realized what I’d said, my heart lodged in my throat, and I could barely swallow around it. Who the hell did he think he was, treating me that way? Somehow I swallowed my anger down like a black hurricane into my guts. Although apologizing went against every instinct in my body, I didn’t want Cameron to suffer because of me. “I’m sorry I yelled, but you scared the bejesus out of me.”
    Hathaway kept me pinned under his glare as he unbuttoned his shirt.
    “What are you doing?” I averted my eyes and started for the door.
    “Where are you going?”
    To pack up my stuff? To collect my pink slip from HR? Hell, anywhere but there would be just fine by me. I stopped but kept my focus on the door. “Uh … back to my office?”
    His sigh came out heavy with frustration. “Let me see it.”
    My brows crowded my eyes as I angled myself toward him, gaze cast to the stain on his once-pristine carpet. “See what?”
    “Your burn.” Annoyance raised his tone. “Let me see your burn.”
    “Why?”
    “So I don’t end up with a worker’s comp form on my desk this afternoon.” When I hesitated, his voice fell into a lower octave. “Come here, Ms. Ross.”
    It took a moment for my spinning mind to realize he’d called me by the correct name. Is he sick? I walked toward him with tentative steps, inspecting his polished black shoes as I went.
    “Give me your hand.” His voice held the unmistakable ring of a command.
    With a galloping pulse, I extended my burned hand toward him, half expecting him to break it or rip it off in a fit of rage. He yanked me closer, and I almost stumbled into him, the heat of his large hand radiating up my arm. His cologne swirled around me, a delicious, spicy aroma that begged me to inhale his essence. I couldn’t stop my gaze from traveling upward. His bare chest caught my attention through his open shirt. Wow, nice. He must have waxed it recently, because it was completely hairless, smooth and oh, so toned.
    Warmth crawled up my flesh as I surveyed the hills and valleys of his six-pack, moved upward over the smooth swell above. The fingers of my undamaged hand tingled, wanted to reach out and touch to see if the wall of muscle felt as amazing as it looked. My gaze traveled up farther. His dark hair curled a little, some falling across his brow, other pieces flipping out beneath his ears. Intense green eyes inspected my hand, and for a moment, I couldn’t remember why he’d asked to see it. Everything below my bellybutton tightened. My mind went blank, frozen by the beautiful face I found before me.
    Our gazes locked for a moment while I was in midgape, my chin halfway to the floor.
    I yanked my hand back and looked down, chest heaving. “I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll … uh … I’ll just go now.”
    And find a very deep hole to crawl into for the rest of my life.
    I’d assumed he didn’t want anyone staring at him because of a deformity, or because he’d fallen face first out of the ugly tree and hit every