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ing。 She turned around to hold up a

pile of leafy herbs?was this dill? cilantro? crab…fucking…grass??when she was met with a

frightening sight。

Ms。 Morgan?s pale; skinny; dimpled ass。 Oh。 My。 God。 Vanessa quickly swiveled around again。

Even with the refrigerated air hitting her in the face; she could feel her cheeks burning。 Loudly

clearing her throat?had Ms。 Morgan just forgotten she was there or what??she turned back;

holding the herbs directly in front of her face。

She peeked out from behind the greens only to see her employer; arms akimbo; standing in only

her wooden huarache sandals; a sheer applered thong; and a lacy black bra。

?Something wrong?? she asked。

?Um; no; of course not。? Vanessa began a sudden; uncharacteristic cuticle examination。 Her

hands sure were rough! But she couldn?t help sneaking a sidelong glance as Ms。 Morgan;

liberated woman of the twenty…first century; tugged off her bra and let it fall; oh…so…casually; onto

the arm of a kitchen chair。

Vanessa willed herself to look her boss in the face。 ?Um; could you excuse me for a second? I?d

like to put my things in my room。? Shehad to get out of there。

?Top of the third staircase。? Ms。 Morgan started rooting around in her monogrammed canvas

boat bag; presumably for something to wear。

Let?s hope so!

Vanessa threw her army…navy…store duffel over her shoulder and took the wide wooden staircase

two steps at a time。 She tried to shake the image of Ms。 Morgan?s thong from her mind。 Who even

wore thongs; besides overeager thirteen…year…olds who liked them peeking out above their low…rise

jeans?

Tres pass?。

And whatever happened to boundaries? 

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