The Labor Day Chronicle (A Holinight

Novella) Lee Jacquot

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The Labor Day Chronicle
A Holinight Novella
Lee Jacquot
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents, as well as resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Lee Jacquot

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design: TRCDesigns

 A Quick Note From the Author

The Labor Day Chronicle is a standalone novella in the Holinights series. None of these books need
to be read in order.

It is a steamy, filthy, and fun read where you’ll need to suspend a little belief and just enjoy the ride. It
is intended for mature audiences of legal adulthood age as it includes explicit consensual sexual
scenes. It should NOT be used as a guide for kinks or a BDSM relationship.

The author is not liable for any attachments formed to the MCs nor the sudden desire to have
someone call you their filthy little slut while they worship your body.

Reader discretion is advised.

To my greedy sluts that always want more. You won’t find it here, but I hope you enjoy the ride.

;)
 Contents

1. Eva
2. Eva
3. Eva
4. Declan
5. Eva
6. Not so much a mystery
7. Eva
8. Eva
9. Declan
10. Eva
11. Declan
12. Eva
Epilogue

Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Lee Jacquot
I s it possible to fall head over heels in love with someone and then the next week want to bash
their brains in with your pretty white and gold stapler?
I mean, I would never, but the temptation is strong, especially when it comes to Declan Foxx.
The pretentious asshole who, up until two years ago, I thought was the literal god of investigative
journalism.
Since my sophomore year of college, I would scour the Montosego Times to read his pieces every
week, sometimes even driving the half-hour into town because I simply had to have the physical copy
of it.
His words were magic.
Pure poetry.
They never failed to melt my brain to mush and even later inspired me to elevate my own craft.
It was because of Mr. Foxx’s work that I altered my premeditated path of becoming a YA thriller
author to writing investigative articles, and started a blog where I reported on local crimes. The posts
weren’t much, considering my university was private and in the middle of nowhere. But it was
surrounded by farms and bored teenagers, so by my graduation, I was solving petty offensives quicker
than the town’s law enforcement.
Fast forward three years and a slew of nonexistent job offers, though, and I was ready to give up.
Ready to call it quits and accept that my temporary secretarial position at my local news outlet was
permanent. Not only that, but my stories would remain stuck on my blog with the hundred faithful
readers, nothing substantial ever coming from it.
But then, fate, or perhaps something much more sinister, led to my transfer to Montosego Times.
I’d applied on countless occasions, each application for any open position, and of course, they
called me when they needed a secretary.
Despite it being the very last thing I wanted, I was ecstatic. Not only was I moving to a city where
the cow population didn’t outweigh the humans, but I would also be working in the same building as
Declan Foxx.
 Declan freaking Foxx.
Though I’d never seen him, I was head over heels in love with him.
Okay, maybe not him, but his mind. His glorious brain that’s capable of turning the most heinous
of crimes into stunning works of art.
A week after I started, I finally saw him, and when I realized it was him, I became physically ill.
Not only was this man the very reason I sat in the chair at MT, but he was incredibly, stupidly
gorgeous.
If it wasn’t his tousled dark hair, the achingly perfect jawline, or the stormy gray eyes, it was his
moisturized lips, six foot three (maybe four) stature, and air of unwavering confidence.
He was everything I’d imagined he would be and so much more, but then, I made the mistake of
saying good morning.
Turns out, the guy I admired, the very same who literally changed the course of my life, was a
complete asshat.
He’d turned those steel eyes on me, and I immediately shrunk.
His gaze raked over every visible inch of my body and assessed the corners of my very soul. In
the end, he must have found it wanting because he cut his eyes toward the executive editor’s office,
and walked away without bothering to utter a single word.
At the time, I’d thought, or maybe hoped, he was having a bad day. Or maybe he was simply so
surprised the previous secretary was gone he forgot his manners. But then it happened again.
And again.
And again.
Declan Foxx couldn’t be bothered to look at me, let alone speak, and it only took me subtly asking
around the office about him for me to discover his pretty words were exclusive to his journal pieces.
It became strikingly clear that chivalry wasn’t included in his vast vocabulary, and instead, he really
honed in on his arrogance being comparable to that of an undefeated pro boxer.
The articles I just knew he worked day in and day out to produce was, in fact, simply natural
talent—a gift I most certainly didn’t get—and it pushed him higher on a pedestal where he no longer
even felt the need to come to the office outside of his weekly meetings with the executive editor.
I can’t confidently decide if it was his lack of a proper social demeanor or the fact I have to work
thirty times harder just to fall short that made me dislike him so much, but either way, the love I had
for him quickly twisted into something ugly and green.
Eventually, though, months passed, and I decided not to care. Soon enough, I fell into a routine
where I was able to ignore his rare visits completely.
After that, everything was fine until my one-year anniversary working at Montosego rolled
around, and I got a mass email from the executive editor. In no way was I mentally prepared for the
ripple it would send through the entire office. I mean, pigs flying—or perhaps the cars we were
promised would by now—would have come at a lesser shock.
Declan Foxx needed an assistant.
Even though I already had a bad taste in my mouth and an inkling of what I’d be getting myself into
if I sent in an application for the position, I still did it. Not only would I be working with the best, but
I also needed to prove to myself that I hadn’t completely given up on my dream. That I wasn’t
accepting complacency. And maybe a small part of me also wanted to show Declan I was worth a
damn good morning.
When I submitted my application, I felt good. Great even. It was as though pushing send was a jolt
to my motivational battery that had been slowly draining over the years. I was almost certain nothing
would come out of it since that seemed to be a reoccurrence in my life, but I did my part in trying.
A bigger surprise than getting the initial email, though? Getting the job.
In the last six months I’ve been working with Declan, I have grown exponentially. Granted, I
haven’t seen him during that time span (because I swear he sneaks in when I’m at lunch or something)
but we speak every day. Or, I guess email is the more accurate term.
Either way, he sends me outlines of what needs to be done, who has to be interviewed, and which
locations should be checked out. We never do any of these things together, which at first was a little
disheartening despite his less-than-approachable demeanor, but I’ve still learned so much from
completing the tasks alone.
Not only that, but when I send him preliminary reports or small snippets of my own ideas, I
always get unreasonably excited when he responds with a note about any of it being good. The
smallest nicely done has me salivating to continue, while on the opposite spectrum, if he says
something is complete shit and needs to be reworked, I don’t get upset. I get even more motivated.
I want to prove I’m capable of doing better, being better, than he expects. And when I get the final
nod of approval, the satisfaction is that much sweeter.
Perhaps that’s what happens when you work under your idol, even an asshole one.
At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself, so I don’t consider sitting on someone’s
couch, dredging up the traumas of being an only child to a pair of farmers who desperately wanted
their daughter to follow in their footsteps.
Blowing out a breath, I check my watch for the third time.
9:23 a.m.
Of course, Declan’s almost half an hour late. I don’t know that I expected much better considering
I’m asking him to meet in person for the first time since working together.
But our current project is too convoluted to go back and forth through emails about, and with it
being Labor Day and the office completely empty, it’s perfect. We have the place to ourselves, which
means we’ll be undisturbed and can spread out in the board room that I swear is always booked, and
Mr. Foxx won’t be seen working. Something I truly believe he has aversions to, considering his
come-and-go schedule.
Being super ambitious or perhaps overly excited, I brought muffins, some snacks, alkaline water,
and made a fresh batch of coffee to see us through the day.
Now here I am, staring at the bulletin board that looks nothing short of a conspiracy spread,
fiddling my thumbs as I watch the minutes tick by.
I guess I could start without him.
Maybe I’ll earn one of those rare compliments.
Pressing both palms against the cold glass table, I hoist myself up and grab my notes to review for
the umpteenth time.
For the past few weeks, the police have been dealing with a string of robberies where the thief
only steals shoes. Like every shoe in the house, slippers included. It’s bizarre, stupid, but undeniably
fun and incredibly inconvenient for the victims.
Police are stumped because the perpetrator isn’t leaving behind any evidence, and none of the
home’s surveillance cameras have caught anything.
The only connection I’ve been able to make thus far is that all the victims are well off, meaning
the shoes are likely worth a considerable amount.
I’ve checked marketplaces, online resale groups, pawn shops, and garage sales. None of them
turned over the stolen shoes.
 Biting the tip of my nail, I glance over the perimeter of the affected neighborhood map again and
again. My little red pins stick all over the place within the massive subdivision, and any time I think I
can make out an outline of something to give me a clue, I realize I can’t.
There’s nothing. No correlation.
Pushing out a frustrated breath, I slap my notes down on the table and whirl around to fall back
into my chair, defeat weighing down my shoulders.
I have to look deeper. Find the place where all the roots connect.
Deciding not to wait any longer for Declan and to make myself a coffee before I can search for
any missed connections, I lazily roll my chair to the machine. Only, when I go to snag one of the mugs,
a quick flash in my periphery causes a scream to rip from my throat.
Four Months Ago

M y expectations for how I’d feel working with Declan included about seventeen different
adjectives, and twelve of them were synonyms for annoyance.
In no way do I consider myself an avant-garde writer, one who will be renowned for
years to come or win a Bluebell for solving the crime of the century. But I consider my work pretty
damn decent. My words have poise, my sentences are easy to read but captivating, and I have the keen
talent to take less than exciting stories and inject a little bit of suspense.
Staring at this email Mr. Foxx sent five minutes ago, however, has me seriously questioning
everything I thought I knew about my abilities.
Chest heavy, I scan over his notes for the third time, my grip tightening around the plastic mouse
so hard it cracks beneath my palm.
Why do you feel the need to use so many adverbs? It’s lazy writing.
My eyes narrow as I highlight the word fearlessly and stab the delete key. Then, just as
aggressively, I jab at the keyboard and type out a new line.
…void of any fear, she pushed the door open to find the assailant.
I stare at the four little words that replaced the adverb and, after a moment, begrudgingly admit I
like it a smidge better.
Dragging my lip through my teeth, I look at his next comment.
I’ve counted over a dozen filler words in the past four paragraphs. Delete at least half.
Filler words. Is there even such a thing? When I write, I want my audience to read it as if it’s a
casual conversation ebbing and flowing naturally. There’s no reason for me to delete words to make
the sentences sound pretentious when I’m trying to invoke real emotions in the reader.
Grinding my molars hard enough to make a shiver run through my dentist, I hold an internal
argument with myself and the grumpy Declan I’ve curated in my head.
He levels me with a bored stare—the very same one he regaled me with the first time I saw him
(the one of few, considering he’s too cool to come to work outside of his once-a-week meeting with
the executive editor).
“I do believe you’ve found more than one emotion reading my work over the years, and I didn’t
use fillers.”
I roll my eyes, find the word just, and begin hitting the backspace key harder than necessary.
“Yeah, but we’re also two different people. Two different writers. I want my stories to have a fun
undercurrent.”
“Are you writing a Nancy Drew special or an article about real crime?”
Pushing out an exasperated sigh, I find six of the filler words and delete them without responding
to my imaginary Declan. When I reread the page, I confess for the second time it sounds nice and still
flows the way I wanted. That notion is enough to disperse some of the defensiveness that’s taken the
reins since glossing over his email.
Two hours later, and with my blood pressure considerably higher, I’ve reworked over a quarter of
the article and am annoyed with how much I like it. But I’m not surprised. That’s the cycle of how
things have worked with us for the last couple of months.
First, Foxx and I are sent a slew of potential stories, and he makes the executive choice on which
we’ll explore before divvying out responsibilities. We work on two stories consecutively, and he
guides me on how to better interview, collect my thoughts, and craft a newsworthy article. All
communication is done by email, which doesn’t bother me because I’m better able to handle
his…constructive feedback, and usually ends with me violently screaming into a pillow when he
leaves so many comments that my document freezes.
Seeing as I was publishing on my own blog without a lick of feedback, it was hard to hear the
things he was saying, and at first, my instinct was to challenge it. To explain why the way I worded
the story was better without his suggestions. But after I applied a few and realized I preferred it with
his critiques, I’ve slowly started to look forward to the borderline condescending remarks.
They’ve become fodder for my drive to do better. I’ve even begun anticipating his comments and
started to write with his voice in the back of my head. I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t see the growth
I’ve had in the short time working alongside him.
Drumming my fingers against the desk, I wait a few minutes before deciding to make a warm cup
of tea. It’s late, so I doubt I’ll hear back tonight, and I could use the damn sleep considering I’ve been
working on the story all weekend.
I force myself to spin around and drag my feet toward the kitchen. As I fill my electric kettle with
water, I run over a list of things I need to accomplish in the office tomorrow. I’m so distracted in my
mind and at the task of making my drink that when my phone rings, I yelp in surprise.
My eyes flash to the microwave clock display that reads a quarter after two in the morning.
A jolt of panic crackles in my chest as I rush toward my phone. Last time I got a call at this hour,
my little brother was in hospital when he was caught cow tipping. The idiot thought it was a real thing
and ended up with a broken rotator cuff.
When I reach my phone, though, it isn’t the name of my parents or stubborn baby brother flashing
across the display.
It’s Declan Foxx.
My heart stalls in my chest, my nerves suddenly wringing tight as the device vibrates across my
desk.
I’ve never spoken to Declan on the phone. Hell, I’ve never even heard his voice. Is my edited
article so awful that it warranted a phone call? Reading his critiques are already bad enough, but
hearing them directly from his mouth?
Shit.
Trepidation and something much more worrisome thread through my limbs as my shaking hand
snatches up my phone just before it falls to the ground.
I tap the green button to answer and hold the phone an inch from my ear, mentally preparing for
him to tell me how juvenile my article was. “Hello?”
“Not bad, little sleuth.”
Holy hell.
I’ve always had a pretty vivid imagination, but in no world does my fake Declan, who I spend
time arguing with in my head, sound anything like the real thing.
His voice is gruff but also somehow smooth, the low timbre decadent as it runs over me like
water from a hot spring. The added praise only serves to heat my skin more.
Mouth dry, I unsuccessfully clear my throat before double-checking that I’m not dreaming. “Mr.
Foxx?”
“I’m not sure if I should be annoyed you have to ask or insulted you wouldn’t have your
coworker’s number saved.”
God. He sounds like the type of man I’d spend nine ninety-nine an hour to talk to after midnight.
Knot lodged in my throat, and a new, completely inappropriate type of heat budding low in my
stomach, I quickly apologize. “No, I have your number saved, I’m just a little taken back by the late
call.”
A small bust of air pushes into the receiver as he grunts. “Tell your companion that it’s work-
related.”
“Wha—” Oh. My cheeks warm at the realization of his insinuation. “No. I don’t have anyone over
—I mean—”
Jesus, words are not this hard.
Annoyance snaps at my spine at how flustered I am. Part of me blames my lack of sleep over the
past forty-eight hours, while the other admits how distracting his voice is—especially knowing how
incredibly handsome he is.
I clear my throat again and force out a string of words that make a coherent sentence. “I was
surprised because we’ve only ever communicated through email, and I was certain you’d be asleep at
this hour.”
“My best thinking happens after midnight, and I could say the same applies to you.”
A sharp bite of pain radiates through my lip, promoting me to release the flesh I didn’t know I was
gnawing at.
“The article reads well, Evangeline. I’ll submit it in the morning.”
“Really?” Pride swells in my chest as I clutch the phone tighter and press it to my ear. “You don’t
have any other notes?”
“Not for this particular article, no. You applied the critiques nicely.”
Another wave of inappropriate feelings flood through my system, forcing me to sit down and
clasp my thighs together. I shouldn’t be turned on by the fact my co-worker and mentor is showering
me with rare praise, but the man is so hard to please, and he sounds so damn good doing it…
“Eva?”
My lashes flutter, my face unbelievably hot as I push the wayward thoughts away. “Sorry. Um,
thank you. I—”
“Please don’t think this will filter or negate further comments. You still have quite a ways to go
before you no longer need a second pair of eyes.”
My mouth snaps shut, and I dry up faster than a microfiber cloth in the dryer.
Don’t get me wrong, his critiques give me drive and inspiration, but his doubts irk me.
“Got it.” I rub at the dull ache in my chest. “Anything else?”
A long stretch of silence passes between us, and for some inexplicable reason, my vexation over
his words grows. But I remain silent, the knowledge I have become a better writer under his tutelage
sealing my lips closed.
After another beat, he sighs, probably regretting calling me in the first place. “No.”
We both linger for a moment, though I’m sure for completely different reasons, until finally, he
speaks. “I’ll email over some new leads tomorrow.”
“Alright. Talk to you then.”
The phone lights up with my home screen before I’m able to utter a goodbye, his dismissal of me
and the conversation leaving a sour taste in my mouth.
When I sink into my bed later that night morning, I have yet to stop thinking about Declan and his
damn voice. It haunts me when I close my eyes and follows me as I drift to sleep, where I have my
first dream of Mr. Foxx.
My first of many.

***

When Declan called me two months ago, I thought it was a once-in-a-blue-moon type thing. A rare
occurrence as fascinating and terrifying as a close encounter with a humpback whale. Little did I
know he would gain a sort of addiction with calling me long after I should be asleep and giving some
of his critiques live.
“It’s juvenile, Eva. This is someone’s life, not a fictional story sitting on a shelf in a middle
school library.”
Letting my lids snap open, I grunt at how little deep breaths and counting to ten have helped me
when it comes to Declan’s constant berating.
While I hardly think a string of donut shop parking lot vandalism equates to a human life, I don’t
argue the fact. “Fine. I’ll rework that part. Anything else?”
“Also, the adverbs. It feels like a never-ending battle with you. Would it kill you to do a search
for anything ending in ly?”
Nope. But pissing you off over them has secretly become my favorite pastime.
“I’ll check them out.”
He groans, and I hate how the sound has such a profound effect on my libido. It winds down my
core and settles low enough that my hands clench into fists from the sudden pressure.
“This…” he trails off for a moment, and I hear the rough clicking of his mouse as he scrolls the
document. “This last bit is a nice closing, though. Well done.”
I immediately melt at his words. Of course, they are nothing but professional, but I can’t help but
twist them in my mind. It’s been an ailment of mine since our first call and has progressively gotten
worse.
Having to constantly hear him tell me to fix things has a particular flair to it, but when he sprinkles
in the occasional compliment, I turn into mush.
Sad and highly inappropriate, I know. But fuck if it hasn’t made these overwhelming phone calls a
bit more bearable.
“Thank you.” My voice is accidentally low and even a little breathy. I try to backtrack and say it
like a regular person who isn’t turned on by a colleague’s praise, but he hangs up before I manage to
push out the words.
Embarrassment flushes through me so fast my head spins as I stare at my phone.
Maybe he didn’t realize.
Maybe he’ll call back and say he lost connection or that his phone died.
God, please let him not know I was totally turned on.
But when he doesn’t call back, I know without a shadow of a doubt, he did.
And when he goes back to pure email communication, my browser history becomes filled with
searches for one-way tickets to Alaska.
Maybe there, I’ll be able to escape the permanent embarrassment seared into my bones.
Present Day

“J esus, Mary, and Joseph.” My pulse whooshes so loudly in my ears that I’m pretty sure blood
could spurt out at any second. Putting a hand over my racing heart, I turn to face the cause of my
sudden distress.
Declan stands at the threshold of the boardroom, his sharp features expressionless as he leans
against the doorframe. His hands are shoved in the pockets of black jeans, his sneaker-clad feet
crossed at the ankle.
I haven’t forgotten how handsome he is, but seeing him after all this time does strange things to my
already erratic pulse. It also reminds me that we haven’t spoken verbally since my little slip up a few
months ago. I’m positive he could tell I was feeling a certain way with the tone of my response, and
knowing so causes my cheeks to flush.
Still, I manage to not look away, holding both my ground and his gaze as I try to lighten the
suddenly thick air. “Was it your intention to scare me out of my skin, or are you always so quiet?”
There’s nothing but bored indifference etched on his perfectly angled face, but the storm brewing
in his eyes is enough to make my entire body tighten. As though he can sense the discomfort, he allows
it to stretch for a few more seconds, his eyes scanning down the length of me with the same judgment I
remember from my first week.
I squirm under the heavy weight of his stare, the inherent need to apologize for saying something
so stupid clawing up my throat.
I loathe the fact that my mouth and mind can never agree on anything, but as soon as my lips part,
he shrugs, jerking from the wall. “Considering it was your incessant demand that I come here—on a
holiday, might I add— I assumed you knew I was coming.”
God, that voice.
“It was a request.” My face is much hotter than it was a moment ago. “And since we’re kind of
stumped here, I figured this would prove more beneficial for the both of us.”
 He shakes his head with a humorless huff as he nears the bulletin board. He pauses briefly to
inspect it, his face unreadable as he studies my scribbled notes. “A request implies I had a choice in
whether or not to come. Your carefully constructed email that included John was anything but a
request.”
My top teeth sink into my bottom lip. I cc’d the executive editor because I knew he’d refuse
otherwise, and I think it’d be healthy to finally see him and find a way to work him out of my system.
How, though, is yet to be determined.
“I only did so because I needed his approval for the office since he’d have to be the one to give
me the building’s security code.”
He takes one more lingering look at the board before turning to face me. “Were you able to find
anything?”
I chew on my lip and distract myself from the myriad of mixed feelings his presence is doing to
me by finishing making my coffee. “Not really, and the more I consider possible suspects, the more I
understand the frustration of the police.”
It’s been weeks, and all of their leads have turned up blank. Granted, there is much more
prevalent crime taking place downtown, but the number of robberies is growing more concerning.
There’s also the question of when will the perpetrator change from petty shoe-stealing to something
more noteworthy.
“Let’s go over the evidence again,” Declan states decisively before falling into one of the chairs
at the end of the long table. “Also, I’ll take a cup as well, if you don’t mind. Two sugars, three
creams.”
Instinct moves me to grab another coffee pod, though my eyes cut to him with clear annoyance.
He reads it plain as day before smirking—an absolutely devastating act that I can feel all the way
to my toes.
I’m quick about making both of our coffees and when I join him at the table, I wonder vaguely
what it will sound like for Declan to mutter the words “thank you.”
In lieu of appreciation, though, he accepts the drink without so much as a glance in my direction
and, instead, takes a tentative sip and nods. “You’ve always been so good at following directions.”
In no world should I be finding those words so unbelievably hot, but my body completely
disagrees.
My core tightens while a slew of butterflies wreak absolute havoc below the belt, and when I
stiffly walk around and lower into my chair, I know from the whisper of a smirk on his lips that he
knows it too.
Well, shit.

***

We bury ourselves in paperwork for the next few hours, both of us moving in tandem while not
interfering in what the other is doing. It’s an odd yet cohesive sort of dance that, unfortunately, yields
little results. We’ve both determined that the detective on the case has considered every avenue, and
there’s nothing left but to go back out in the field and conduct a few more interviews. There’s been
another robbery this week, and it could definitely help us to interview the latest victim.
“Here’s the list of questions I plan on asking. Is there anything you’d like to add?” I slide the
clipboard across the glass table to Declan, careful not to look at his face when I do.
 Sitting with him has been hard enough, both with the snide remarks that make me want to throw
my pen at him, and his subtle hums of approval that make my core clench. It’s conflicting and horribly
confusing to be anywhere near him, and this reprieve is desperately needed.
He finishes reading the line of the interview he’s working on before glancing up through his row
of thick dark lashes. “I might add a few on the way.”
“On the way?”
He pushes out a lengthy sigh. “I hope you’re not under the impression I would let you go alone.”
My brows furrow. “I’ve done plenty of interviews before, most of which you sent me to.”
A flash of something close to irritation cracks through his mask of indifference. He quickly
corrects it and waves a hand lazily in my direction. “Those were well-populated businesses, not
private properties.”
The idea of Declan Foxx wanting to accompany me to an interview to ensure my safety melts
something in me that is probably better off frozen.
He must read the smile tugging at my lips and quickly deflects my thoughts. “You dragged me from
my home, and think I’m going to stay here alone and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you?”
“That’s a little much. I hardly forced you—”
“Let us do what we always do and agree to disagree.”
My mouth pops open, the urge to tell him to shove it so close to the edge of my tongue my lips
tingle. But then he says something that piques my interest more.
“I also think we should look at these four locations as I’m fairly certain they may be future
targets.”
I lean over the table, my eyes glued on where he’s drawn circles over four different spots on the
smaller map I printed out. “Why?”
When he doesn’t answer me right away, my eyes flicker up to his and find his lips drawn into a
tight line and an angry expression hardening the features on his face.
My heart flutters as I realize how close we are—about a foot—and how intently he’s glancing
at… my eyes track his gaze and—
Fire engulfs my face as I rear back, trying but failing to act as if my white blouse wasn’t
completely exposing my chest with the way I was leaning over the damn table.
“Lace for a business meeting.” Declan leans back in his chair, his usual boredom settling back in
place. “Interesting.”
I must look like a fish the number of times my lips part to say something, anything that doesn’t
sound as stupid as the truth.
Like most women, a matching lace set makes me feel sexy, and for me, sexy equals powerful. This
morning when it finally settled in that I’d be meeting Declan in person to work in a completely empty
office, I needed a boost of confidence. One that would see me through both our day and my ability to
knock him from my system.
I never had any intention of him seeing my damn underwear, and now it looks as though that’s
exactly what I wanted.
Unwilling to tell him that I had to wear lace in order to build the confidence to be here, I settle on
a lie. “I needed to do laundry, and this is all I had left. Maybe next time, avert your eyes.”
Something dark passes over his gaze, sending a small shiver to whisper through me. After a
moment, he runs a thumb under his bottom lip and nods. “Perhaps next time, don’t shove your chest in
my face.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
 “But you did,” he counters, blinking slowly as he slides the map over to me. “I don’t think your
partner would appreciate that knowledge.”
My head ticks back.
He’s fishing.
Declan Foxx is fishing to see if I have a boyfriend.
The idea is both wildly ridiculous and incredibly satisfying. Why? I have no freaking clue, but I
decide to neither confirm nor deny the lack of a significant other.
Sinking into the chair across from him, a newfound sense of self-assurance smothers the slight
sting of embarrassment from exposing my lace bra. “Why do you think that one of those locations will
be the next target?”
His stormy gaze narrows slightly as if he intends to be more direct in his accusation before he
blinks and, once again, he’s bored. “The pattern.”
Slightly deflated at how quickly he can deflect, I feign indifference. “I don’t see what you mean.”
He points to the first location that was burglarized. “First house was on the East side of the
neighborhood.” He drags his finger along the paper and jabs it into the next address. “The second was
in the South.”
Again he moves, and my gaze follows his hand, all the while trying my hardest not to notice how
big they are or how nine thick veins run up the back before colliding into his forearm.
“Then the West and North. It’s a clockwise movement with the houses no further than four units
from each other. If the pattern continues, these are the potential locations.”
I nod, swallowing as I snag my clipboard from the table and squeeze it in my grasp. The metal at
the top bites into my palm, but I pay it little mind when Declan lifts his hand and runs it through his
hair.
“Lucky for us, the community’s local social media is advertising a block party for today, so we
may get lucky and find our perpetrator doing the same as us.”
The idea we may catch the person in the act sparks an excitement that is enough to help me ignore
how hot he is with disheveled hair, and I stand. “You should have said something sooner. Let’s go.”
Declan shakes his head slightly before rising to his feet. “Are you always so eager?”
I grab my purse before narrowing him with a look I hope he can read, but after a second thought, I
smirk.
“If the reward is worth it, yes.”
Then, I spin on my heels and walk out the door.
T his fucking woman will be the death of me.
Exiting the freeway, my fists tighten on the steering wheel as I continue to force my attention
on the road and not on the infuriating human warming my passenger seat. A difficult task
considering my entire car is currently filled with her lemon-tinted scent, coating my lungs in a
fragrance that likely won’t evaporate anytime soon.
I’ve done well ignoring the foreign urges that have accompanied Evageline Perez for the past year
and a half since the little sleuth found her way into Montosego Times. But lately, they’ve been getting
harder and harder to ignore.
When I first laid eyes on her, I was stunned silent at how gorgeous she was. How her dark waves
framed the cutest heart-shaped face which illuminated with the flash of her smile. And her dimples?
Fucking hell, those little dips in her cheeks were enough to make me drop to my knees and worship
her, the notion that we were complete strangers not giving me an ounce of hesitation.
Thankfully, I was able to reel in the perverse thoughts and quickly corrected myself before I made
a mistake.
Fraternizing with colleagues was a hard no for me due to a past occurrence, and I put her in the
forbidden category before I was stupid enough to break my own rule.
It hadn’t stopped me from thinking about her, though. From wondering who she was as a person.
Her likes, her distastes. How she spends a rainy day, or what hobbies she partakes in to fill her spare
time. I also wondered what she sounded like when she came. If she was a silent screamer or one who
cried from her desperation.
Somehow, week after week, I was able to ignore the incessant internal demand to return her
cheery good mornings and keep my distance.
I’m positive she thought I was an asshole, but it was for both of our own good.
I’m not the best type of man when it comes to relationships. It isn’t because I’m incapable of
being loyal or loving a woman with every part of me. It’s simply because, in bed, most women find
my preferences undesirable.
 I have an acquired taste, one I’d rather not go without, and one most women—at least those I’ve
found myself with—detested.
Finding someone to connect with both mentally and physically was challenging enough, including
the element of degradation only made it just shy of impossible. And it was excruciatingly clear from
the beginning that Eva would fall into the category of being one of those women who wanted soft and
sweet.
At least, it was until that night.
For weeks I had been hammering her with nothing but hard truths over her work, barely sprinkling
in any of the well-deserved praise. I’m not sure if I did it subconsciously, a deeper part of me
refusing to not know if she’d truly be against it, or if I was trying to force her to put some distance
between us of her own accord. But either way, I got my answer.
Every critique was met with little to no resistance, and instead, she produced beautiful articles.
She was taking my advice in strides, using my less-than-kind words to push herself past what she
thought she was capable of, and when she was given an ounce of praise, she melted.
A night hasn’t passed when I haven’t thought of her breathy little thank you. The fucking want and
desire staining every syllable was enough to snap the weak composure I had and eradicate my
reservations.
The only way to stop myself from ruining the carefully crafted partnership we’d created was to
put walls back into place.
But it’s clear they are just as weak as I am.
Or perhaps my affliction with Eva is just that strong.
From my periphery, I watch as she tugs on her tight pencil shirt that’s gradually risen, exposing
thighs meant to be gripped with the intent of leaving small bruises.
I shove the thought aside and make a turn toward the upscale neighborhood. “I want to add a
question to the sheet.”
Eva jerks slightly, the sudden break in silence startling her. For an investigative journalist, I find it
sort of cute how jumpy she is.
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” She fiddles with her purse, digging her hand inside and plucking out a pen
before hovering over her clipboard. “What is it?”
“I’d like to know if they scheduled the grocery pick up or if they randomly decided on going
shopping.”
Eva’s arched eyebrows tug together as she scribbles down my question. I can tell she wants to
inquire about my thought process, but she won’t. She wants to figure out what I’m thinking without my
help.
I stifle a proud smirk as I pull the car into park outside the house of the most recent victim in a
string of shoe burglaries.
The curb appeal is what one would expect in a neighborhood on the upper end. Lush green lawn,
perfectly manicured boxed hedges, and roses that crawl up the sides of white-washed brick for an
added pop of color. The front is encased in black accents, ranging from gutters to the iron doors and
window frames.
I cut the engine and exit the car, maneuvering around the front and to Eva’s side before she has a
chance to gather her things together. When I open her door, her eyes widen.
“What?” I question, shoving a hand into my pocket.
She shakes her head, her waves tumbling over her delicate shoulder and down her back.
“Nothing, I just didn’t take you as someone who opens doors.”
 My eyes narrow. “And why is that?”
Eva shrugs, and a tight band of irritation wraps around my sternum. “You don’t look the type.”
“Please, Evangeline. Tell me what that kind of person looks like.”
She purses her lips, and I have to physically fight the urge not to bend down and kiss her. “I’m not
sure, but definitely not someone with a face made of stone and a permanent scowl etched it in.”
I have to catch myself from laughing at her sudden brazenness.
“Be a good girl and get out of the damn car, Eva.” The words are out before I have a chance to
stop them, and in the next second, two things happen.
Eva’s breath catches, and her thighs snap together.
Oh, fuck.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I pinch the bridge of my nose before stepping back, my blood rushing in
every direction it shouldn’t be.
Eva, on the other hand, is quick to gather her composure and jerk from the passenger seat. Besides
her face sporting the smallest hint of a blush, she otherwise seems unbothered by my words.
My mouth opens to apologize anyway, but the same part of me that so desperately wants to see her
beg for me stops the words from falling out.
She didn’t respond negatively. In fact, I’d go as far to say she was turned on by it. Why not
explore what this woman wants? What if it’s precisely what I’m offering?
Before the thought can anchor, Eva lifts her hand to knock on the heavy iron door. Within seconds,
it opens, and the homeowner appears on the threshold. Though her perfectly styled bun, designer
sundress, and carefully made-up face would suggest otherwise, her distress is clear.
“Mrs. Fonto? I’m Eva Perez from Montosego Times. I’m here for the interview we discussed on
the phone yesterday.”
The woman opens the door wider and urges us inside. “Hurry before Nancy sees. The last thing I
need is that woman to have more gossip ammunition at the neighborhood barbeque.”

***

“One last question, Mrs. Fontno: when you left to get groceries, was it a pre-scheduled pick-up or
an on-the-whim trip?”
Confusion lines mar Mrs. Fonto’s face, but her exasperation outweighs her curiosity over Eva’s
inquiry. “It was an order pick up. I schedule them every Wednesday.”
Eva nods slowly, jotting down a note before standing and holding out a hand to the woman.
“Thank you again for your time.”
Mrs. Fonto’s head lifts slightly as she rises and shakes it before leading us to the door. “I hope
they are able to catch the bastard soon. Some of those shoes were custom made and are
irreplaceable.”
“As do I.” Eva offers her a thin lipped smile. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
After Mrs. Fonto closes the door behind us, Eva scoffs.
“What?”
She shakes her head, quickly taking the steps toward the car. “It’s just crazy to me that she’s
worried about shoes and not the violation of someone breaking into her home.”
I nod, glancing over my shoulder at the wide expanse of the yard. Besides the small security
system marker and summer wreath on the door, there’s nothing amiss. Nothing to suggest why this
house was targeted out of the dozen on this street. “Some people are more concerned with their
material property than they are their privacy.”
“That’s a little asinine.”
“It is.”
When Eva and I reach my car, I grab the handle but pause, the memory of earlier causing unease to
work uncomfortably in my chest.
It’s one thing to read body language, but it’s another to assume. I don’t want my internal hopes to
cloud my judgment. I need to be explicit.
“About earlier,” I start, my eyes scanning over her in an attempt to gauge her expression. “I didn’t
—”
She waves me off. “It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean for it to come out so…” Her voice wanes as
she averts her eyes, a light blush dusting over the bridge of her nose.
I’m not the softest person in the world, but the innate need to kiss the pink flesh pushes to the
forefront of my mind. I take a small step forward, leaning down slightly to close the almost foot of
height difference between us. Eva stops me when she stiffens.
“I think we should stop by the block party. Look around and see if we spot anyone or anything out
of place.”
“I agree. But, Eva—”
Her big brown eyes flash up to mine, and my cock jumps in my slacks. Her pupils are so wide, so
fucking round, all I can think about is how they’d look blown up from pleasure.
Her voice comes out small, meek. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Foxx. Really. I was being difficult,
and you let it slip. No need to delve into it when we can simply pretend it never happened.”
Mr. Foxx.
Never happened.
She’s drawing a line in the sand, separating us into our rightful places.
A small pang shoots across my chest as I let her words sink in. It was foolish of me to hold on to
hope. To think her acceptance of my critique was anything other than helping her grow.
I blurred the lines inadvertently, and she’s cleared the haze for me.
I give a curt nod. “Yes. I agree.”
She smiles, though it looks forced and uncomfortable. “Great.”
I pull open her door. “Great.”
T he block party in question is nothing similar to what I can recall from the few I’ve seen—
granted, my knowledge is limited to what’s been shown on TV—but I have to say, I’m not
disappointed.
Tucked away inside Declan’s car, parked under a large oak on the corner, we watch from a
distance at the party meeting taking place in the middle of a cul-de-sac.
Everyone (about sixty people) in attendance is separated into three clearly defined groups. The
women are seated in clusters along a row of tables lining one side of the road while the men are on
the direct opposite side, huddled in the vicinity of three long blacksmith grills. Children make a sort
of line down the middle, segmenting the two.
I’m pretty sure they should be playing hopscotch, running around and chasing each other, or even
jumping rope to Little Sally Walker, but instead, they’re all drawing on the asphalt with chalk, barely
a hum of conversation coming from them.
“Quite the rager, huh?” I say it more to myself as I pull a notebook from my bag.
Declan’s been relatively quiet since we left Mrs. Fonto’s, only mentioning similarities in the
houses we passed that were already targeted.
It was difficult to act as if his words truly had no effect on me, and even harder not to read into the
subtle lean-in he’d done before we’d gotten into his car.
There’s no way Declan is interested in me, but my long-standing crush, or perhaps admiration,
continues whispering sweet nothings and convincing me otherwise. My skin was too hot, my face too
flushed, and I knew I was making a mountain out of a molehill. In order to not look completely
foolish, I hauled the professional wall in between us.
All I can hope for now is that I can keep it firmly in place without counting the number of times
he’s looked at me in his periphery (eight) or how often the pinky finger of his hand resting on the gear
stick has twitched in my direction (four).
“An orderly rager,” Declan responds, the boredom in his voice so thick it’s melodramatic.
An amused huff leaves me as I click my pen to jot a quick note about the scene playing out in front
of me.

People appear entertained enough by the company around them.

The women are smiling politely, nodding, and occasionally waving.
Some are not so secretive in their gossipy stares. Men—

“What’s so funny?”
I pause, shooting him a quick glance. He’s leaning against the door, his body angled in a way that
allows him to prop one arm on the steering wheel and another along the back of his seat. It’s an
inviting pose that’s screaming for me to look down the expanse of his body.
And, of course, I do. Though it’s brief and, hopefully, appears like nothing more than a blink, I
check him out.
God. Even in torn jeans and a regular white shirt, he’s hotter than my second-favorite Winchester
brother.
I shake my head and avert my gaze back to the window. “Nothing, I just…” Trailing off, I wonder
how I could word what I want to say without offending him.
Though I’ve been acquainted with him for almost two years, I don’t know much about him outside
of the professional stuff, and have no clue what I could say that would piss him off. If I relied on what
I’ve heard around the office, it could be almost anything that would do it, but when I remember the
bits and pieces he’s accidentally dropped when working together, I’m not so sure. He says the most
bizarre things, and whenever I think he’s stepped over some invisible line, I always second-guess
what I know of him.
I mean, there was this one time when we were on a call, he said good girl after I’d just changed
something in our working document. I nearly passed out from the deep grit in his words, but two
seconds later, I learned he has a German shepherd named Polly who is great at fetching.
There was another time when I called him and gave a less-than-ideal pitch about the opener of a
story and was told I was a useless little cumslut. Before I could absorb any of the things that did to
my body or express any sort of shock, I was informed about the fish he was gifted by his baby sister
that doesn’t seem to want to die even after three years.
The fish’s name is Clumpsy, meaning I made that shit up in my head because why, I still don’t
know.
And then, there was also that occasion when I caught a special two-for-one. We were on the third
draft of a story that needed to be done the next day, and it was close to four in the morning, meaning
we were both running on very little sleep. I was able to finish the article, and I could swear on my
life, he muttered I was a perfect little word whore.
Were my panties drenched? Absolutely.
Did he say something two seconds later to make me think I was losing my mind? Also absolutely.
Needless to say, I know he graduated from Northwestern in Illinois, has a sister who is now
eleven that he spoils as if she’s his daughter. Loves his dog, Polly. Hates his goldfish, Clumpsy. And
is addicted to Wordle. I also know he is always bored, naturally talented, has an ego the size of
Alaska, and is the sole person who made me realize I need degradation added to my already heavy
praise kink.
I don’t, however, know if he’s easily offended, and I’d rather not find out, considering we are
working together for the foreseeable future.
“You’re holding back.” His deep timbre makes me jerk slightly. “You just what?”
The air feels hotter. Did he turn off the AC?
“Umm,” I shift in my seat, readjusting my weight as I force myself to push out the words. “You
remind me of a prepubescent emo kid.”
The sentence comes out so fast it’s a little jumbled, but I still brace for impact.
Instead of an annoyed scoff or a defensive retort, he simply asks, “How so?”
I slowly turn my head toward him, and when I catch the dark swirls roaming through his gray
irises, I suck in a small breath. He’s so dangerously beautiful. I imagine looking at him is similar to
being in the eye of a storm, surrounded by the quiet chaos but completely enthralled at how
magnificent it is.
I bet he’d destroy me just the same too.
Clearing my throat, I click the pen in my hand twice before setting it on top of my notebook.
“Nothing seems to entertain you. And when it does, it’s as though you have to hide it under a
disgruntled noise or pursed lips.”
Inadvertently, my eyes flicker down to those perfect set of lips. Even pulled into a harsh line, they
look soft.
“I see,” he says, the dark tornadoes in his iris twirling a little bit faster.
Biting on the inside of my cheek, I force my gaze away, trying to ignore the sudden flush of heat
down my spine.
For the seventh time, I tell myself he’s not coming on to me, and my attraction is a confusing one-
sided concoction from years of falling in love with words on paper, and unwittingly, the author.
And if the past couple years have shown me anything, it’s that he’s not what I thought he was by a
longshot.
“Perhaps it’s because I like to keep my work and personal life separate, and see no need in
entertaining office relationships.”
My brows snap together, but I keep my gaze trained on the only woman who is sitting alone at one
of the farther tables, keeping a watchful eye on what I assume is her child wearing a matching yellow
sundress. “Laughing at someone 's joke is hardly engaging in an office relationship.”
He shifts beside me. “Laughing turns into conversations, conversations lead to drinks which often
turn into something much more than intended.”
Oh.
“Then eventually, when things don’t go as planned and the two part ways, the unhappy party
decides to make the office so fucking isolating, you decide it’s best to only check in once a week.”
Surprise ripples through me as I absorb his story. This is the first time we’ve had a conversation
not stemmed from misinterpreted sexual anecdotes that allows me a peek into his life. Now, with it
given so suddenly, I want to whirl around and conduct an interview like I would for a story, but I
know the moment I do, I’ll scare him away.
Feigning only slight interest, I let my eyes flash to him momentarily. “And I’m guessing said
unsatisfied part—”
“Unhappy,” he corrects, leaning his head against the headrest and letting his eyes drop to my
mouth.
His gaze is heavy and hungry, and when his throat bobs with a swallow, every nerve in my body
jolts to life like I’ve been hit with a defibrillator.
This time I can’t move my eyes away from him. I’m stuck, caught in the thickness of the growing
tension filling the cabin. I’m not sure where the hell it came from, but I know I’m not imagining it.
Shifting slightly, I dare to question, “Why was she unhappy?”
He shrugs half-heartedly. It’s as though this is the last thing on his mind, and his answer is an auto-
reply. “She wanted something I couldn’t give her.”
“Which was?” I ask, loathing how my voice has a higher pitch.
He pauses, his eyes finally lifting to mine. In them, there’s something gritty and dark, tempting and
damning. My body sings to be closer to it. To be devoured by it.
Another moment ticks by, and in it, something small, almost undetected, snaps, like a rubber band
popping in the distance. I have no idea what, but something changes.
When he speaks, his voice is strained. “She wanted soft and sweet.”
And there it is. The confirmation of what I already assumed.
I should take that as a huge red flag and finally detach him from the man I’d created in my head.
But instead, it makes me more curious about the many layers underneath.
I want to peel them back one by one and discover who he is at the core.
The damn professional wall is falling faster than the volcano I tried to make in science using
wafer paper when I was twelve.
“I see.” I return my attention to the woman who I’ve now deemed slightly suspicious, hoping to
give my crumbling wall a second to self-heal.
After a few moments of observation, I realize no one is bothering to go sit by her, and, in fact, a
couple of women have sent pointed glares in her direction. A quick look at her left hand signals she
isn’t married, and considering the value market of the homes in this area means she’s carrying all the
bills.
Perhaps the other women are jealous and have said things that made her want to steal shoes to
inconvenience them? Sounds silly, but since none of the shoes have been sold, it would make sense
because I don’t think she needs the money. It would also explain how she knows when her neighbors
leave.
But not how she’s getting past security alarms.
“What are you searching for?”
I push out an annoyed sigh. “Same as you. Someone with due cause.”
He grunts. “In this area? Everyone has a vendetta.”
Nodding, I jot down a few more notes and put my journal back in my bag. “Want to go check out a
few of those houses you suspect are next and then head back to the office?”
“Sure.”
With one last glance at the group, I take a quick picture and examine it until we reach the first
house.
 A woman with brown hair (shoulder length) is visibly
uncomfortable. Though she’s focused on her daughter, she
occasionally glances over her shoulder at the group of women
congregating nearby.

I t isn’t much, but it makes sense. She’s more than likely dealing with a plethora of jealousy, snide
remarks, and isolating attitudes directed at her. The feminist in me would hope that the women
around her would be uplifting, but based on the shady looks I witnessed, I highly doubt it.
Printing out a grainy photo of the women’s profile, I prepare to stick it to the board along the
blank square with a huge red question mark. But when my hand lifts, I’m stopped by Declan sidling up
next to the board.
“You need more substance. An antisocial woman who was probably goaded into going to the
party by her kid is hardly enough evidence to condemn her.”
“But it’s enough to paint her as a suspect.”
 I can almost picture the hard line of Declan’s mouth as he readies to give me his opinion
otherwise, but to my surprise, he gives a curt nod. “Put her up there.”
Hesitant but slightly satisfied, I stick a pin through the top of the photo. It sucks that we’ve been
working on this case for two weeks and don’t have anything new to report. “Seems like our article for
this week won’t be very captivating.”
Declan shrugs. “It will be fine.”
“How so?” A brow arches as I turn my head to face him.
I suck in an inaudible gasp when I realize how close he is. At almost ten inches taller, I have to
tilt my chin up slightly to see the foreign amusement playing across his features.
“Because I’ve already learned who did it.” He says it so matter-of-factly, and the smug grin
curling one side of his lips would be enough to make me see red if it wasn’t so sexy.
Still, I manage to rear back. “What do you mean you’ve already learned who did it?”
This time he chuckles, and the sound trickles down my throat like a shot of smooth vodka,
warming my flesh as it goes. “Is there another way to interrupt my words?”
Okay, ass.
“There’s no way you’ve figured it out. We have the same evidence, and I’m at a complete loss.”
He shrugs again. “Don’t know what to tell you.”
A flash of anger, or perhaps jealousy, twists my insides. “I call your bluff. I’ve been working with
you long enough now to—”
“Come now, little sleuth. Just because we work together and I’ve helped you become a better
writer doesn’t mean I can magically make you more self-aware.”
My face heats as if I’ve been slapped. The insult should infuriate me, should make me want to
cross my arms and stamp my damn foot like a child in protest. But instead, I whirl around and focus
on the board. There’s no way in hell he’s figured it out.
No way I’ve missed something he hasn’t.
Determination erupts in my chest as I pour over the map, the notes, and the photos. My eyes scan
over each piece of evidence we’ve gathered, and I overanalyze until frustration takes root. There’s
nothing, nothing, to point to someone with a hundred percent certainly.
Against every fiber of my being wanting to figure it out on my own, I’m sure I’m not missing
anything. No stone has been left unturned.
“Who is it?” I keep my back facing him, the vague sting of embarrassment making it impossible to
look at him.
That would be admitting defeat. That I’m not as good as him. (An obvious fact I’m not disputing,
but one I don’t want to admit.)
“What would give you the impression I have any plans to tell you?”
“Wh—” I spin around and almost come in contact with Declan’s chest.
The air whooshes out of me regardless as he lifts an arm above my head, bracing it on the bulletin
board, and the other grips the side, caging me in.
My heart hammers against my sternum as the sudden lack of space absorbs the surrounding air
now filled with his earthy scent. Lifting my chin until my eyes collide with his is such a heavy feat my
knees nearly buckle under the weight.
My lungs burn as I pull in more of his air, words suddenly hard to grasp onto.
Declan’s sly smile says he can tell the effect he has and finds it…entertaining.
Asshole.
After another lingering look that leaves my insides nothing short of mush, he pulls away. “You’re
searching too hard for something that’s directly in front of your face.”
Air void of his scent and my body free from his hold, I take a settling breath before responding.
This time, I let it be known he’s being a dick and fold my arms.
“I think when you’re working with someone, it’s important to share notes you may have that could
assist the other person.”
Declan pulls out the seat at the end of the long glass boardroom table before dropping into it.
“How would that make you any better?”
I throw out my hands, my exasperation slipping through. “Guidance, Mr. Foxx.”
One side of his mouth hitches up, and suddenly I regret telling him he should engage in laughter
within the office. “So you need me to guide you in order to help you excel?”
“I mean, it would help.”
“Are you upset?” he inquires, moving closer to prop an elbow on the table and lean on his fist.
“A little,” I admit. “It’s annoying enough as it is that the writing comes so naturally to you while I
have to draft, write, edit, revise, and then edit some more, only for you to rip it in two. Now I can’t
even solve a case when paired with you.”
Declan arches a dark brow. “If you didn’t want to work with someone who you knew would
potentially rip your work in two, why did you apply for the job?”
My gaze jerks away from him. He’s cocky enough as it is, there’s no way in hell I want to
exacerbate his big head with any more ammunition. “I knew it would be a good opportunity.”
It’s not a lie, but it tastes sour like one.
“It had nothing to do with elevating your little blog?”
My eyes snap to him. There’s no way he knows about it. It’s under a pseudonym, under an
unrelated email. Still, somehow, Declan Foxx connected me to it, and my rapid heart rate can’t stop
the massive wave of insecurity that floods my bloodstream.
This time when I fold my arms over my chest, it’s a shield of sorts. “How long have you been
aware of it?”
He drops the hand he was leaning against and tilts his head. “Since your first day.”

I have no idea why I continue to do stupid things when it comes to this woman. She’s already made it
glaringly clear she wants things to stay professional between us, but her contradicting body language
makes things almost impossible to navigate in the same aspect.
Her body calls to me with the strength of a siren to a sailor, and just as the underwater creature
would drag me to my death, Eva would damn me in an instant.
 But even knowing so, I can’t resist. Can’t ignore the fucking pull.
Like now, with Eva’s face blanched in shock, I want nothing more than to erase the space between
us and throw her on top of this glass table as I talk her through her first orgasm.
She wants guidance? I can give her exactly that.
“How?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I muse with the idea of telling her the truth. Telling her how much mental space she’s occupied
since the first time I laid eyes on her. But the incessant reminder of how disastrously this could end
steals my words and morphs them into a bullshit lie.
“I needed to make sure you weren’t like the last secretary who stole stories and printed them on
the web. Turns out your stories are completely original.”
Her perfect lips part and close twice, and I have the simultaneous thought as to how soft they’d
feel against mine while wondering how tight she’d wrap them around my cock.
“Is there a problem, little sleuth?”
It only takes a second, but when the wheel finally clicks in her mind, I see the realization. “That’s
why you call me that.”
An observation, not a question, but I respond to it anyway. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“I thought it was cute,” I state simply.
Her brows snap together. “You thought my hard work was cute?”
It’s clear she isn’t sure if she should be offended or honored by the compliment, but I help assist
her by using words that aren’t foreign to her since working with me.
“Yes. They are well thought out and concise, but reminded me of a Babysitter’s Club installment.”
Eva’s cheeks flush, and I imagine the rest of her tan skin the same color when she hears what else
I could say.
“Do you mean Nancy Drew?”
I chuckle to myself, nodding. “Yeah, that one.”
She huffs, and it’s so adorable I can’t help but feed her a little bit of a better compliment.
“They’re the whole reason I took you on as a partner. Why I requested you.”
Eva pauses, her eyes flickering with uncertainty and confusion as she absorbs my words. “You
requested me?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“I saw potential.”
She resists the temptation to ask whatever question is playing on her lips and jerks a thumb at the
board behind her. “Yeah, I’m sure. I can’t even remotely see whatever you did to solve who
committed the crimes. So much potential.”
Vexation at degradation not coming from me pulls my muscles taut. “I chose you for your writing
capabilities, not your detective skills. Also, I’ve been doing this much longer—”
“You’re twenty-eight, Declan. Which means you only have four years on me in the investigative
journalist game.”
“But I’ve been writing since I was a child. I had an addiction to Scooby Doo, started sneaking
around the age of nine watching murder mysteries while my parents were asleep, and read memoirs
about mass murderers.”
I’m not sure if the history lesson was a necessity, but the inherent need for her to understand this
wasn’t something I just up and decided to do sits heavy on my chest.
 I need her to realize that from where she started, she’s… phenomenal.
Something twists in my chest, and I realize with irritating certainty that if she allows it, I’ll gladly
break my rule about office fraternization.
One side of Eva’s cheek sucks in as she chews on it. There are a thousand thoughts flowing
through her beautiful head, but instead of plucking out the one that agrees with anything I’ve said, she
releases a disgruntled huff. “Still. I can’t even figure out who’s stealing shoes.”
“Neither can the police, who’ve been on the case far longer than we have.”
“Well—”
“You’re too fucking strung tight about this, Eva. You’ve done well. You’ve asked the right
questions and searched in all the correct places.”
“Thank you.” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip at my praise, and my blood sings as it roars south.
But then she ruins it by glancing down at her notes sprawled across the table. “I could still do better.”
I run my hands down my face. “Goddammit, sleuth. When was the last time you got laid?”
The question that was only supposed to be an internal thought comes out faster than I can stop it,
and Eva’s round brown eyes tell me she’s as surprised as I feel. But instead of doing what I expect
and ducking inside a protective shell, she throws her hands on her hips.
“If you’re asking when I last orgasmed to release the tension—that is mostly caused by you might
I add—it was this morning.”
The vicious blush that coasts up her neck and envelops her cheeks is enough evidence that it took
all the moxie she had to push those words out. But before I respond, both to her words and the
thickening of my cock at the mere mention of my little sleuth coming undone, she twirls on her heels
and storms out.
I cannot believe that conversation just happened. That I admitted to Declan Foxx that I masturbated
had an orgasm this morning.
My entire body is on fire, a strange mix of embarrassment and exhilaration tangling in my
chest.
What was I thinking?
What the hell was I thinking?
Shoving open the top to the large printer, I type in my code and release a few copies I had sent
earlier in the morning. The machine whirls to life, the low hum of its inner workings giving me
something to focus on while I try to rein in my throbbing pulse.
When the prints shoot out from the side, I place one facedown on the glass (because, of course,
the feeder is streaked from someone running a paper with still-wet white out through) and make a
copy for the both of us. I focus so much on the task at hand that I don’t hear Declan enter until I feel
him at my back.
“Inquiring minds are curious.” The deep rumble of his voice sends a gaggle of goosebumps down
my arms and tightens my nipples into hardened buds. “Who assisted in relieving this tension I
supposedly caused you?”
I suck in a breath meant to ground me, but instead, it only allows his scent to invade my lungs and
make my core clench.
God, I shouldn’t say anything. I should inform him in my best professional voice that we crossed
an inappropriate line and that we should turn back and run the other way.
But I can’t.
I don’t want to.
Instead, I want to prove to myself that I have the same—if not more—effect on him that he has on
me. I want to feel what it’s like to have Declan take control of me. Guide me. Obliterate me.
It’s been so long. So long since I’ve cared enough. Since I’ve actually wanted it. And fuck,
whether I want to admit it or not, he has me wanting all sorts of things.
 Clearing my throat, I attempt a Foxx nonchalance. “There isn’t anything to allege here. You very
much do cause all the tension in my body.”
He doesn’t respond, and I take the reprieve to switch to another paper. This one is a map of the
neighborhood. I plan to create a flip book of the targeted houses to see if the visual of the next one to
be hit becomes more obvious.
After a beat, the undeniable warmth of Declan moving closer wraps around me. “You didn’t
answer me.”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
One of his hands falls on the lip of the copier a centimeter away from mine, making my pulse
jump. “I could counter that it is.”
I laugh, though it’s humorless and completely strained. “And how’s that?”
His other hand comes around, locking me in place in front of the machine. “It’s only right I get to
know who relieves you of something that I’m responsible for.”
The air is incredibly thinner, and no intake of breath seems like enough to satiate my lungs.
Tell him.
The thought doesn’t come from my subconscious but from the very needy hole between my legs.
The one I’ve been trying my best to ignore but is slowly becoming a lot more possessive of my body.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I move back a fraction, pushing our bodies closer together. If
he so much as sighs, he could brush against me.
“Who.”
It’s not a question but a demand for an answer, and the muscles in my thighs quiver at how hot it
is.
“Myself,” I whisper, suddenly not caring that we’ve long crossed a line not meant for people in
our situation. I’ll worry about the after…well, after.
A deep groan that rumbles out of him vibrates my entire frame. “Show me.”
My mouth drops open as Declan’s hands leave the machine. When I dare a glance over my
shoulder and don’t see him, I whirl around, but in no world am I ready for the sight in front of me.
Declan’s on one knee, his head tilted to the side. Even lowered, his height means I barely even
have to look down. My breath hitches when he lifts his big hands, and they immediately find my
thighs.
The sudden contact sends jolts of inexplicable pleasure rippling through me.
How the hell is this happening? How did we go from zero to one hundred so quickly?
Because we’ve wanted this since we read that first article.
The thought, or maybe the admission, is enough to give away to the molten lava ready to seep into
my bloodstream. Then, when Declan squeezes my thighs with an unrelenting grip, I cave completely.
“Show me, little sleuth. Show me how you relieve the tension.”
His voice leaves no room for discussion or debate, and as the heat radiates from his eyes roving
down my frame to the place between my legs, I realize I’m a complete goner.
“We’re in the office—”
“No one’s here.” His hands move up, sliding the tight fabric of my skirt up.
“Aren’t there cameras?”
“In the entrance, not the copy room, Eva.” He clicks his tongue. “Now stop pretending there are
any obstacles in the way, and show me how you make this fuckhole come.”
His words make my pussy contract, the sudden need to have him make me come is so
overpowering, I release a small whimper.
 Declan’s eyes close momentarily as if he’s committing the noise to memory, and when his lids
open again, the desire in them is both unmistakable and starved. It’s as though a veil has been lifted,
and I’m getting my first glimpse of the hidden feelings he’s been smothering.
In that second, I understand how I never had a chance. Not really.
One of his hands glides up and grabs my right one, guiding it down to my skirt that’s now bunched
up around my hip. His pinky snags onto the crotch of my underwear, and he tugs it aside so he can
place my hand right where he wants it.
Adrenaline and arousal lick at my insides, propelling me to move my hips under the weight of
Declan’s stare.
“Be a good girl, and don’t make me ask twice.”
My teeth bite down on the inside of my cheek, and I do as told, opening my legs just enough to
find my clit. Leaning back against the copier, I let my desire take over. My fingers cover my throbbing
nerves, and I start moving in sharp, deliberate movements.
Ricochets of pleasure jolt through me with each stroke, and the expression on Declan’s face only
proves to encourage me to move faster.
The lines of his face are more pronounced as he focuses on my hand for a moment, then gazes up
at me. It’s as though he can’t decide what he wants to watch more, and that thought causes my insides
to burn even hotter.
With his one hand still holding my lace panties to the side, his other kneads into my flesh. The
combined sensation drives me higher and forces my eyes to seal shut.
“No.” Declan squeezes me with more force. “Don’t look away from me.”
A moan slips free as my fingers continue their rhythmic movement, but when my eyes flutter open,
it’s more difficult to keep my pace. Declan slowly rises and lifts me up onto the copier, where my ass
makes contact with the cold glass.
I hiss at the contrasting temperature but keep my gaze on him as my legs naturally spread open
further, allowing him to step in between them. He stops when his mouth is only an inch from mine.
“This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? What you’ve been craving?”
I nod frantically, my breath coming out in pants now. “Yes.”
He smirks, releasing my panties and repositioning his fingers over mine. “Would you like me to
fill this wet cunt of yours, Eva?”
I somehow find the word and tell him again. “Yes.”
His tongue peeks out and sweeps over his bottom lip, but we’re so close it brushes over mine in
the same movement. I arch forward, my need overpowering my senses, desperation clawing at my
chest to get closer.
“Ask nicely, and perhaps I will.” His rough whisper grinds over my hyper-sensitive nerves, and I
tremble against him.
Without so much as a second thought, I tilt my head back so I can look him in his eyes. I want him
to know how badly I do, in fact, need him inside me. When I catch his gray storms, I drag my bottom
lip through my teeth and beg. “Please, Declan.”
With a lopsided grin, his fingers slip inside of me while his thumb covers my fingers still moving
over my clit.
My pussy reacts to the intrusion, clenching momentarily while being stretched by Declan’s thick
fingers.
A low groan reverberates from his chest as he pumps in and out, the delicious filling yanking me
deeper into euphoria. “I can’t wait to feel this tight little cunt choking my cock.”
 I release a moan in response, the sensation so intense I forgo stringing a coherent sentence
together.
“Who knew you were such a perfect slut. All soaked and ready for me.” He curls his fingers
harder. Faster. Stroking a spot that causes white dots to bloom in the corner of my eyes. “Or is this not
all for me?”
“I—” His pace increases, and instinct drives me to latch onto his shoulder with my free hand, my
nails digging into his muscle to help anchor me in place. Sparks of my impending orgasm are starting
to flare out, and I know at this rate, I won’t last much longer. “Only for you.”
He makes a satisfied noise in his throat before pushing his thumb down and guiding my
movements. “My perfect slut, then.”
My.
His.
Declan’s.
Whether he means the words or not, the possession in them yanks me closer to the finish line as he
continues to work my body as though he’s studied it for years. His fingers interchange between curling
and twisting, thrusting and petting.
I claw at his back, the tight ball of pressure growing smaller and smaller until I’m close to tears
with the desperation for a release.
“Declan.” Hoping he can hear it in my voice, I pull my hand away and beg him to take over.
“Please, don’t stop. Please.”
“Ah, so you’re also a needy little whore, huh?”
The warmth of his breath coasts along the bridge of my nose as he backs away enough to see my
face.
“Do you know how beautiful you are right now? Flushed and desperate for me. So fucking
perfect.”
He begins curling his fingers much harder, swiping over my clit so fast I stop breathing
completely. “There it is. Come for me now, princess.”
And I do. I fucking do. The tight ball explodes with his command, ripping through me as though it
had a vendetta to repay.
“You’re making a mess, pretty girl.” His voice rasps against my throat as my pussy continues to
contract, my orgasm barrelling into me over and over again. “You’ll lick my fingers clean when
you’re done.”
I nod, though I barely even know what I’m agreeing to as I’m overtaken by the wave of it. It isn’t
until what feels like an eternity later that he withdraws from me, leaving me empty, that I understand.
Declan slips two fingers past my lips and into my mouth. “Clean.”
His command is made like his previous ones, leaving no room for debate, though, if I’m being
honest, I don’t have one.
I grip his wrist with both my hands and suck the digit in my mouth, swirling my tongue around
them while my eyes stay on his.
He groans his approval as I suck my arousal from his fingers. “That’s my girl.”
Again with that word. There must be something that passes over my eyes as I think it because
Declan pulls away from my mouth and grips my chin.
His eyes search mine. “All mine. To do with however I please.”
This time, I can feel the question in the statement. The need for consent to continue—or maybe
truly start—whatever we’re doing. And it’s in this blink of a moment I see his vulnerability.
 It’s then I make what could be the most foolish or best choice of my life since coming to
Montosego Times.
“All yours.”
D eclan Foxx just finger fucked me in the copy room, and then made me lick my cum from his
finger.
The more I repeat what happened not even ten minutes ago, the more I consider how
absolutely crazy it sounds.
Hotshot journalist caught in the throes of passion with nobody assistant.
Montosego Times’ scandal of the decade.
One and only Declan Foxx found knuckles deep in his co-writers cunt. Hear what co-workers
have to say.
The bizarre titles continue to populate in my head as I correct my skirt for the umpteenth time
since being back in the boardroom. Declan excused himself for a call right after, and I’ve been staring
at the coffee machine with hopes that lasers will pop out and destroy the damn thing, proving this is
all been a dream.
But when my eyes find my still shaking hand, and I shift enough to feel the cool lace still damp
from our escapades rub against my cunt, I know it wasn’t.
I don’t regret it in any way, but I can’t help the gnawing sensation that he might.
When I agreed to the unspoken question I made him realize what he’d asked. What he’d done.
Panic, worry, and apprehension rises in my gut, obliterating whatever butterflies remained from
my orgasm.
I start to pace at the same moment thick black coffee spurts from the spigot and fills the air with
what would normally be a calming aroma. Instead, my heart is racing, wondering if my moment of
desire ruined what was meant to elevate my entire career.
Stop.
I force my feet to pause as a magnetic pull draws my attention toward the tall windows of the
boardroom. On the other side, standing casually with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his
phone, Declan treads back and forth in front of the glass. He stops when he catches me staring and lets
his gaze drop down the length of my body before flashing me a smirk.
 That little reassurance incinerates the doubt in a second, and I suddenly find myself wanting to
interrupt his call.
For whatever reason, I convince myself to do one better and instead try to figure out what I’ve
missed before he’s done by returning to the drawing board.
After five minutes, I notice something in one of the pictures. In the background of a distraught Mrs.
Fonto and her husband, a white van from a local security company catches my eye.
It’s nothing out of the ordinary but makes me recall what Declan had said about searching too hard
when the answer was right in front of me. Thinking back, the comment was a double-edged sword, but
it forces me to study all the evidence for a second time.
I find the van in one more picture. It’s not enough to paint the security installer as a suspect, but it
causes something far in my gut to signal warning alarms.
Something’s not right.
Again and again, I survey everything, moving from the table to the board, the pictures, and
previously interviewed suspects. I’ll have to talk to some of them again, but with my line of questions
—especially if I ask about the lone woman from the party—will likely raise suspensions and possibly
ostracize her more.
Shit.
Moving to a computer, I pull up social media and begin sleuthing around through the known
accounts of the victims we have written down. It only takes about six profiles till I find my mystery
woman tagged in a back-to-school picture someone took of her daughter and theirs a week ago.
Her name is Nancy Witmore, and she works at… A few more clicks, and I pull up the familiar
logo.
Double shit.
“You know how gorgeous you are when you’re focused?” Declan’s heavy hands find my
shoulders briefly before one trails around and lightly grips my neck.
An involuntary moan slips free as his lips brush along the shell of my ear.
“How gorgeous you are when you come.” His hold tightens. “I could watch you fall apart for me
every day and never grow tired of it.”
The admission makes my heart flutter. Even though it’s of a sexual nature, the mention of whatever
this is continuing past today sends an unnecessary amount of serotonin into my veins.
Declan releases me and snags my cup of coffee. “Is it wrong of me that I’m stuck between wanting
to watch you work or having you on your knees?”
Oh.
My cheeks warm as I imagine myself taking him in my mouth and giving him a reason to drown me
in dirty praise. But then Declan clicks his tongue and runs a hand through his mused hair.
“But that would be too much of a reward for you right now, and I’m not sure you deserve it.”
“What do you mean?”
He tilts his head toward the computer. “You still haven’t figured it out.”
“I’m close, though,” I say a tad defensively. “I can feel it.”
His lips draw down in the corner. “But are you, little sleuth?”
I nod, a new wave of eagerness urging me to return to the computer. I have the gut feeling he’s
trying to distract me. “Yes.”
He takes a long sip of my coffee and sits it down before leaning close, tucking a stray hair behind
my ear. His finger lingers along the edge as his eyes delve into mine, searching for something so deep
I lose my breath in the process.
 He drops down an inch, our mouths so close I can practically taste the sweet coffee on my tongue.
“Good. Because good girls get rewarded, princess. And I very much would like to reward you for
being so perfect in the copy room.”
My heart leaps into my throat as he closes the gap and finally, finally, presses his lips to mine.
While having his hands on and in my body is a feeling I couldn’t possibly compare to anything
else, his mouth on mine is in a category of its own.
Declan steals everything in our kiss. My breath, my body, my soul. His lips move over mine as if
I’ve been his all along, and he’s waited until this very moment to let it be known. To let me know.
He parts my lips open with a simple swipe of his tongue and dives into my mouth to lay claim to
the rest.
My hands reach into his hair and tangle with the strands, yanking him impossibly closer as the kiss
becomes a bit more wild. A bit more unrestrained.
He groans in my mouth, gripping either side of my face and taking what little control he can
without erratic movements.
We compete in a dance of showing each other who wants the other more, who’s waited longer, but
in the end, we only create a blaze that can’t ever possibly be put out.
The kiss goes on until I’m physically weak, my arms morph into limp noodles, and my lungs burn
from lack of air. But I don’t care. I want to stay in this moment, stuck in his orbit and only break apart
when I’m an inch from death.
When Declan finally releases me, I have to hold on to the back of my chair and the table for
support.
“Mine,” he whispers against my mouth.
I nod. “Yours.”
It’s such a bold statement…such a permanent one. But it feels right. Like it only took today to
release the floodgates of waters that have been raging and splashing against the dam since the very
beginning.
“About fucking time.”
My body sings at his words, and I can’t help the wide smile that curls my lips.
He shoots a glance at the computer before rising to his full height. “Hurry up and figure it out so
we can finish the report, and I can take you the way I need to.”
The promise of more—so much more—coats my nerves in a determination I’ve only ever felt
since working with Declan six months ago.
“Sure thing, Mr. Foxx.”
I wait until Eva is engrossed in her work before leaving her in the boardroom and returning the
phone call I’d made after what happened in the copy room.
While I want nothing more than to throw her over my shoulder and carry her back to my car,
and drive us to my place, I want her to unravel the case first. She’s more than capable of solving the
petty crime, and when she does, I’m sure the soft spot in her heart will ache from the reasoning behind
the stolen shoes.
What men won’t do.
“Hey, Foxx. Got my story?”
I glance at Eva again before making a beeline for her cubicle near the executive’s office. There’s
an empty one connected with hers that once belonged to me when I actually reported to work every
day. It seems so long ago, and now, part of me wishes I hadn’t let the past change that. If I hadn’t,
perhaps me and Eva would have happened much sooner.
“Almost. Should be done within the next hour or so.”
“No fucking way you solved another one before the cops.”
My boss’s need to question me sends an irritating spike of annoyance through my sternum. “I’m
confused why after all this time, you still have any doubt left.”
He chuckles, his hoarse laugh cracking from the stogie he probably just got done huffing on.
“Yeah, yeah. Alright. I’ll prepare for the chief to call busting my balls about not breaking the story to
him first. I also found a couple of other leads you might want to take a look at.”
“Oh yeah?” I vaguely inquire, my focus now on the contents of Eva’s desk. It’s organized with the
level of aesthetic perfection one would expect on a Pinterest board.
A tan leather mat rests under a white keyboard and mouse. An acrylic stapler and tape dispenser
sit on the side of her Mac, along with a woven cream coaster and a cup of speckled gel pens. In the
corner, she has a green ivy-like plant hanging from a hook secured into the rough backing of her
wallpapered cubical, along with a few pictures of what I assume are her family and friends.
This is very much what I’d expect Eva’s desk to be like, and the thought makes me smile.
 Just before I turn away, a familiar article hidden behind her lamp gives me pause. I lean forward
to inspect it when both my boss asks a question and Eva appears behind me.
“What are you thinking? I know those wheels of yours are turning up there.”
I grunt in response as I turn to face Eva. Her eyes follow a smooth path behind me till she spots
the article, and a light blush blooms over her cheeks. She sucks her lips in slightly, causing her
dimples to pop out, and my cock twitches in response.
“Which one would you prefer I do?” I ask, my eyes anchored to my sleuth as she takes a cautious
step toward me.
He begins droning on as to what lead he thinks Eva and I should follow next, but I don’t hear
anything he says. In fact, the only audible thing around me is the violent shoosh of my blood in my
ears as Eva drops, falling to her knees in one fluid movement.
I wait, curious to see if she’s bold enough to go through with what her action implies. And in the
next beat, her fingers undo my jeans with such finesse, I actually release a gruff laugh.
“Glad you agree. Alright, I’ll send the link over. Email me as soon as you and Perez are done, I’m
eager to find out who thought stealing shoes was the best way to inconvenience someone.”
I hang up at the same moment Eva’s fingers dip under the waistband of my briefs.
Her big brown eyes gaze up at me with a wanting that would have me weak if my heart weren’t
thrumming so fast.
“I didn’t think you could look any prettier, but on your knees, you’re fucking stunning.” I tuck some
stray hairs behind her ear before she finally yanks my briefs down, and releases my throbbing cock.
Her pupils flare as she realizes what she’s about to take in her mouth, and I can’t help but smile at
the slight trepidation that coasts over her features.
I stroke a hand lightly down her jaw. “Don’t worry, princess. You’ll be able to take me here and
in that tight little pussy of yours.”
She licks her lips, determination powerful enough to wash away her reservations, and sucks the
head of my dick into her mouth.
“Fuck.” I groan at the sudden tight warmth wrapped around my erection. One hand falls to the
desk behind me to steady myself while the other threads into the dark waves at the back of her head.
Eva wastes no time in twirling her hot tongue around my cock, sucking me inches deeper each
time she does a complete rotation. Over and over, she repeats the motion until my dick nudges the
back of her throat.
Small gags escape her throat until she pulls away to the tip before sucking me back in, her cheeks
hollowing with the intense pressure of her mouth.
“That’s my girl. Keep going, just like that.” I tighten my grip on her hair and push forward slightly,
reveling in the tiny whimper she gives me. “You’re doing so well.”
One of her hands lifts and curls around the base of my dick, twisting and pumping in tune with her
mouth.
My head tips back momentarily, a guttural groan ripping from my throat as my nerves wring tight.
Her mouth is fucking heaven, exactly like her.
I force my gaze back down to the beautiful sight in front of me and nearly come from the visual. A
black-stained tear streaks down Eva’s cheeks as she continues to work me, driving me closer to
spilling my soul down her throat.
“God, I wish you could see those pretty tears.” My blood roars through me, and my balls draw
tighter. “See how incredible you are on your knees, taking me like the needy slut you are.”
Her groans vibrate my cock, and I can tell that if she keeps her pace, I won’t last much longer. But
then again, I don’t want to. The sudden urge to have my mouth on her cunt is enough to have me forgo
my own release in search of another one of hers.
I’d meant what I told her: I’d watch her unravel every day if she’d let me.
As though she can read my mind and disagrees with my plan to stop her, Eva somehow sucks me
further into her mouth, finally forcing my knees to buckle slightly.
“Fuckkkk.” Fire erupts suddenly down my spine, ripping through my body like it’s nothing more
than dry grass to fuel its flame. “Let me go unless you plan to swallow every drop, princess.”
When Eva doesn’t release her tight hold, I smirk. “My perfect little whore, made just for me.”
It only takes two more passes of her tongue before my orgasm tears through me and releases into
her waiting mouth. She sucks down every last drop, swallowing in quick successions until I’m nearly
slumped over, only the desk behind me supporting my weight.
She slips me from her mouth and stands, tucking me gingerly back inside my jeans as if we’ve
done this a million times before.
I can’t help the urge to cup one side of her face, and my heart stutters when she closes her eyes
and leans into my touch. How can she be so soft after that? So fucking tender.
Anger at myself stabs me in the center of my chest.
I could have had this woman months ago had it not been for my stubbornness. Had it not been for
my fear.
No matter, she’s mine now.
“Eva.” My voice is much grittier than it was a few moments ago. I clear my throat and let my
thumb stroke along the edge of her mouth. “Where have you fucking been all my life?”
She smiles, her lashes fluttering open so I can see the various shades of brown coloring her irises.
“Helping run a farm and solving a couple of mysteries.”
I roll my eyes at her playfulness. “You understand I have no intention of letting you go, right?”
I hadn’t meant to make the declaration so soon, but after realizing how much time has already
been lost, I don’t bother trying to backtrack.
Her grin widens into a bright smile. “Understood, Mr. Foxx. Anything else?”
I glance at the lamp behind me. “What’s with that?”
It’s an article MT ran only a month after I was hired. I’d become obsessed with a string of
burglaries that were taking place in the next town over and was able to predict the next victim before
it happened. Naturally, the police force didn’t believe me, so when MT released the story that night,
minutes before it happened, I became both a nuisance and was shoved into the journalist spotlight.
“It was the first story of yours I read,” she says simply, shrugging a shoulder.
“Enough to keep it?” I question, stepping closer.
She bites the inside of her cheek but doesn’t move as I invade her space. “Yes.”
“Why?”
She hesitates, her eyes bouncing from me to the article hanging behind me. There’s a much deeper
story there, and for some reason, I need to hear it.
“Reading it is how I discovered my love for investigative journalism.”
“You switched your journalism niche because of an article I wrote.”
“No. I…” She shakes her head, her blush deepening. “I became a journalist because of your
article.”
For a second, I’m silent, her words absorbing into my mind like fresh rain during a summer
drought. But as the moment stretches and what she’s saying sinks in, my heart swells uncomfortably.
“What were your plans prior?” My voice has a strange undercurrent to it, and I clear my throat.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
lead encephalitis. Bromides and iodides should be given, and the
patient placed in quiet surroundings, and fed on light, nutritious diet,
and every attempt made to produce elimination of the poison.
In the acute attacks vaso-motor spasm is no doubt partially
accountable for the symptoms, and various dilators, previously noted
in discussing colic, may be made use of, such, for instance, as amyl
nitrite, scopolamine, etc., whilst pyramidon, antipyrin, phenacetin,
and other similar drugs may be given between the attacks. Under no
circumstances should any person who has suffered from
encephalitis or other cerebral symptom of lead poisoning be allowed
to resume work in a lead industry.
The treatment of eye affections in lead poisoning requires little
comment, as the essential treatment must be the same as in other
cases, mainly devoted towards the elimination of the poison.
Attempts may be made to treat paresis of the ocular muscles by
means of mild electric currents, but of this we have had no
experience. About 50 per cent. of cases of lead amaurosis and
amblyopia recover, but a number progress to total and permanent
blindness, and prognosis in such cases must always be guarded.
Prognosis.—The prognosis of the first attacks of lead poisoning
of simple colic or even slight unilateral paresis is good; practically all
cases recover under proper treatment. It is unusual for a person to
succumb to a first attack of simple colic, or paresis.
In most cases the serious forms of poisoning only make their
appearance after three or four previous attacks of colic, but a single
attack of paresis is much more frequently followed by a severe form
of poisoning, such as encephalitis.
A limited number of persons are highly susceptible to lead
poisoning, and these persons rapidly show their susceptibility when
working in a dangerous lead process. Lead poisoning occurring in an
alcoholic subject is more likely to result in paretic and mental
symptoms than in a person who is not addicted to alcohol, and the
prognosis of lead poisoning in an alcoholic is much less favourable
than in the case of a normal person.
Mental symptoms very rarely follow from a single attack of lead
colic, and as a rule do not become established under three or four
attacks at least.
 A small number of persons exposed to excessive doses of lead
absorption through the lungs develop mental symptoms, such as
acute encephalitis, without any prodromal stage. The prognosis in
such cases is always exceedingly grave.
Sudden generalized forms of paralysis are not common in the
early stages, but are invariably of grave import. A few cases of
paresis, particularly those of the peroneal type, and affecting the
lower limbs, become progressive, and eventually develop into a
condition resembling progressive muscular atrophy with spinal cord
degeneration.
The prognosis of simple colic in women is about as good as for
males, but if an attack of abortion is associated with lead poisoning,
eclampsia often supervenes and permanent mental derangement
may follow. In the dementia associated with lead poisoning the
prognosis is not so grave as in other forms of dementia, especially
alcoholic, but depression is an unfavourable symptom. The mania of
lead poisoning is not so noisy as that of alcoholic mania, but where
there is suspicion of alcoholic as well as lead poisoning the
prognosis is exceedingly grave.
As a rule the prognosis of cases of lead poisoning occurring in
industrial conditions is more favourable when colic is a marked
feature than when it is absent, and there is no doubt that the
prognosis in cases of industrial lead poisoning at the present time is
more favourable than it was before the introduction of exhaust
ventilation and general medical supervision—a fact no doubt to be
explained by the relative decrease in the amount of lead absorbed.

REFERENCES.
[1] Goadby, K. W.: Journ. of Hygiene, vol. ix., 1909.
[2] Hunter, John: Observations of Diseases of the Army in Jamaica.
London, 1788.
[3] Drissole and Tanquerel: Meillère’s Le Saturnisme, p. 164.
[4] Hoffmann: Journ. de Méd., October, 1750.
[5] Weill and Duplant: Gazette des Hôpitaux, lxxix., 796, 1902.
[6] Briquet: Bull. Thérap., Août, 1857.
[7] Peyrow: Thèse de Paris, 1891.
 [8] Stevens: Bulletin of Bureau of Labour, U.S.A., No. 95, p. 138, 1911.
[9] Zinn: Berl. Klin. Woch., Nr. 50, 1899.
[10] Serafini: Le Morgagni, No. 11, 1884.
 CHAPTER XII
PREVENTIVE MEASURES AGAINST LEAD
POISONING

Amount of Lead Fume and Dust in the Atmosphere

Breathed.
—Lead fuses at 325° C. and boils at between 1450° and 1,600° C. It
is volatile when heated to a cherry-red colour—about 550° C.
Experiments[A] carried out in the laboratory of a lead smelting
works in London to determine the temperature at which leady fumes
rise from the surface of open baths of molten lead, showed that
unless pure lead is heated to about 500° C., and at the same time
stirred, no appreciable fume comes off, and that from lead, at the
same temperature, under ordinary working conditions, little or no
lead in the form of oxide passes into the air. From lead that has been
unrefined or which contains zinc—that is, lead in the earlier stages of
its manufacture (in the reverberatory furnace)—leady fume was not
given off at temperatures less than 760° C. even when stirred,
because at a temperature of 600° C. the surface of the molten metal
became covered with fluid slag, which will not allow any oxide to be
given off. Impurities such as tin or antimony prevent the oxidation of
molten lead at lower temperatures, and give it a bright, shiny colour.
When heated to about 600° C., these impurities form a slag on the
surface of the lead containing antimoniates and stannates of lead,
which do not evolve lead fumes unless heated to temperatures never
likely to be reached in open lead pots. The reason why molten
refined lead can give off lead fume more readily than those named is
because the oxide formed on the surface is a dry powder and not in
the form of slag. Hence, when the bath is stirred, some of the dry
oxide is broken up and may rise into the air. When a bath of molten
lead is not stirred at all, it can be heated to over 740° C. without
finding oxide in the air aspirated—a temperature not obtained under
ordinary working conditions.
[A] In these experiments air was aspirated through an iron funnel having an
area of 113 square inches (12 inches diameter), placed at a height of 1¹⁄₂
inches above the molten metal, and connected to an iron tube 3 feet in
length and ¹⁄₂ inch in diameter. Inside the iron tube was a glass tube, one
end reaching own to the top of the funnel and the other connected with a
tube containing pure loose asbestos wool, and continued down to a tightly
stoppered bottle holding dilute sulphuric acid. Another glass tube connected
this bottle with an aspirator. The asbestos tube was weighed before and
after each test, and the asbestos then treated with nitric acid, and the lead
determined volumetrically. In none of the tests made was lead found in the
bottle containing sulphuric acid.

Were there nothing else to consider but escape of lead fume from
a pot or bath of molten metal, obviously hooding over of the bath and
removal of the fume from the atmosphere of the workroom would be
unnecessary until this temperature was reached. Usually, however,
the bath is kept standing exposed to the air, and the oxide which
forms on the surface has to be skimmed off periodically, and
whenever the ladle is emptied a small cloud of dust arises. Or at
times, in certain processes, chemical interaction takes place in the
bath, as in the dipping of hollow-ware articles previously cleaned in
hydrochloric acid, with evolution of fume of volatile chloride of lead.
Any vessel, therefore, of molten metallic lead in which skimming is
necessary, or in which chemical action gives rise to fume, requires a
hood and exhaust shaft, even although the temperature is little, if at
all, above the melting-point—unless, indeed, a separate exhaust can
be arranged for the removal of the dust immediately above the point
where the skimmings are deposited.
Of many samples of dust collected in workrooms where there are
baths of molten lead, it is impossible to say definitely how much of
the lead present is due to fume, and how much to dust. Thus, a
person tempering the tangs of files was attacked by plumbism, and a
sample of dust collected from an electric pendent directly over the
pot, at a height of 4 feet from the ground, was found to contain 15·6
per cent. of metallic lead. Similarly, a sample taken above a bath for
tempering railway springs contained 48·1 per cent. metallic lead[1].
And, again, a sample collected from the top of the magazine of a
linotype machine contained 8·18 per cent. Such analyses point to
the necessity of enclosing, as far as possible, the sources of danger
—either the fume or the dust, or both. Determination of the melting-
point of the molten mass will often help in deciding whether there is
risk of fume from the pot, and, if there is not (as in the sample of dust
from the linotype machine referred to), will direct attention to the
sources of dust in the room. Proceeding on these lines, S. R.
Bennett[2], using a thermo-electric pyrometer which had been
previously standardized and its rate of error ascertained, and
checking the results in some cases by a mercury-in-glass
thermometer (the bulb of which was protected by metal tubing),
determined the temperature of the various pots and baths of molten
lead used in the Sheffield district. As was anticipated, temporary
cessation of work, stirring up of metal, recoking of furnaces, and
other causes, produced fluctuations of temperatures from minute to
minute in the same pot, and in its different parts. The compensated
pyrometer used gave for file-hardening pots a maximum of 850° C.,
and a minimum of 760° C., the average mean working temperature
being about 800° C. The variations of temperature of lead used for
tempering tangs of files and rasps was found to be high, and largely
unrestricted from a practical standpoint. The maximum was 735° C.,
and the minimum 520° C., the average mean working temperature
being 650° to 700° C., varying more than this within a few hours in
the same pot. Spring tempering is carried out at some comparatively
constant temperature between a maximum of nearly 600° C. and a
minimum of 410° C., depending on the kind of steel and the purpose
for which the steel is to be employed. Generally, the temperature
required rises as the percentage of carbon in the steel is diminished.
As these baths are larger than file-hardening pots, the temperature
range is higher at the bottom than at the top unless well stirred up.
Some lead pots are set in one side of a flue, and the temperature in
the mass is then greater on the furnace side. From further
observation of these pots during experiments, he was inclined to
believe that the lead did not volatilize directly into the atmosphere, as
heated water does, but that the particles of coke, fused oil, etc.,
which rise from the surface, act as carriers of the rapidly oxidized
lead particles which cling to them.
Similar experiments were carried out in letterpress printing works.
The average temperature was 370° C. in the stereo pots, and in the
linotype pots at work 303° C. Scrap lead melting-pots when hottest
registered 424° C., but registered as low as 310° C., according to the
amount of scrap added, the state of the fire underneath, etc. The
best practical working temperature depends largely on the
composition of the metal used. That at some factories is the same
for stereo drums as for lino pots—viz., 81·6 per cent. lead, 16·3 per
cent. antimony, and 2·0 per cent. tin, added to harden the lead. On
the other hand, some printers use a higher percentage of antimony
in the lino than in the stereo metal. Lead melts at 325° C., and
antimony at 630° C., but by adding antimony to lead up to 14 per
cent. the melting-point is reduced at an almost uniform rate to 247°
C., after which further addition of antimony raises the melting-point.
This explains why temperatures as low as 290° C. are practicable for
linotype pots. The molten eutectic has a specific gravity of about
10·5, whereas the cubic crystals average 6·5 only; therefore in these
pots the latter float on the top, and excess of antimony is to be
expected in the skimmings or on the surface.
Administration of certain sections of the Factory and Workshop
Act, 1901, would be simplified were there a ready means available
for determining the extent of contamination of the air—especially of
Section 1, requiring the factory to be ventilated so as to render
harmless, as far as practicable, all gases, vapours, dust, or other
impurities, generated in the course of the manufacturing process,
that may be injurious to health; of Section 74, empowering an
inspector to require a fan or other means if this will minimize
inhalation of injurious fumes or dust; of many regulations having as
their principal object removal of dust and fumes; and of Section 75,
prohibiting meals in rooms where lead or other poisonous substance
is used, so as to give rise to dust or fumes. Unfortunately, owing to
the difficulty hitherto of accurate collection, only a very few
determinations of the actual amount of lead dust and fume present in
the atmosphere breathed have been made. This lends peculiar value
to a series of investigations by G. Elmhirst Duckering, which have
thrown much light on the amount of lead fume present in the air of a
tinning workshop, and the amount of lead dust in the air during
certain pottery processes, and the process of sand-papering after
painting. Incidentally, also, they help to determine the minimal daily
dose of lead which will set up chronic lead poisoning[3]. Aspirating
the air at about the level of the worker’s mouth for varying periods of
time, he determined the amount of lead in the fume, or in the dust,
per 10 cubic metres of air, and from knowledge of the time during
which inhalation took place he calculated the approximate quantity
inhaled per worker daily. We have summarized some of his
conclusions in the table on pp. 204, 205:
Duckering’s experiments as to the presence of fumes containing
compounds of lead in the atmosphere breathed were carried out in a
workshop for the tinning of iron hollow-ware with a mixture consisting
of half lead and half tin. The process of manufacture and the main
sources of lead contamination in the air (knowledge arrived at from
these experiments) are explained on p. 59. As the result of
laboratory experiments designed to show the effect of the violent
escape of vapour produced below the surface of molten metal in
causing contamination of the air, and the nature of the contaminating
substances, he was able to conclude that the chemical action of the
materials (acid and flux) used, and subsequent vaporization of the
products of this action, was a much more important factor than the
mechanical action of escaping vapour. Subsequently, experiments
carried out on factory premises gave the results which are expressed
in the table as to the relative danger, from lead, to (a) a tinner using
an open bath; (b) a tinner working at a bath provided with a hood
and exhaust by means of a furnace flue; and (c) the nature and
extent of air contamination caused by the operation of wiping excess
of metal (while still in a molten state) from the tinned article. In all
three experiments aspiration of air was made slowly: it was
maintained at the rate of 3 to 4 cubic feet an hour in the first
experiment for between seven and eight hours; in the second for
twenty-eight to twenty-nine hours; and in the third for twenty-four to
twenty-five hours. The person engaged in tinning at the open bath
was shown to be exposed to much more danger than one working at
a hooded bath, while the wiper was exposed to even more danger
than the tinner using an open bath, since not only was he inhaling
fume from the hot article, but also fibre to which considerable
quantities of metallic lead and tin adhered.
Analysis of samples of dust collected in different parts of the
workroom bore out the conclusions derived from analysis of the
fumes. Thus, samples collected from ledges at varying heights
above the tinning bath containing the mixture of tin and lead
contained percentages of soluble lead (lead chloride) in striking
amount as compared with samples collected at points in the same
room remote from any source of lead fume, while the insoluble lead
present, as was to be expected from the fact that it consisted of lead
attached to particles of tow floating in the air, was less variable.
TABLE XII., SHOWING QUANTITIES OF LEAD (Pb) IN THE
ATMOSPHERE AT BREATHING LEVEL.
(G. E. Duckering’s Experiments.)

Approximate
Present in Quantities
10 Cubic Metres of Lead (Pb)
of Air Estimated Time expressed
(Milligrammes). (in Hours) in Milligrammes
during which inhaled by Percentage
Total Lead Inhalation Worker of Lead
Occupation. Dust. (Pb). took place. per Day. in Dust.
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6)
Tinner using — 37·79 5¹⁄₂ 10·70 — T
open bath

Tinner using — 6·36 5¹⁄₂ 1·80 — T

bath
covered by
hood, and
having
fumes
 exhausted
by draught
of furnace
Wiping off — 124·31 5¹⁄₂ 35·20 — 1
(tinning)

Earthenware 38 1·80 7¹⁄₂ 0·69 (average 8·30 D

dipping of 4 expts.)
(pottery)
Earthenware 84 6·27 7¹⁄₂ 2·40 (single 7·42 V
dipping expt.)
(pottery)

China dipping 36 2·12 7³⁄₄ 0·83 (average 5·43 C

(pottery) of 4 expts.)

Rockingham 44 2·26 7¹⁄₂ 0·86 (single 14·37 D

ware dipping expt.)
(pottery)
Earthenware 47 2·29 7¹⁄₂ 0·88 (average 5·90 C
cleaning of 7 expts.)
(pottery)

China ware 123 13·34 6 4·08 (single 10·85 V

cleaning expt.)
(pottery)

Earthenware 25 2·19 8 0·92 (average 8·58 F

drying of 3 expts.)
(pottery)

Earthenware 34 2·08 8³⁄₄ 0·93 (average 6·58

glost placing of 3 expts.)
(pottery)
China glost 30 1·08 9 0·50 (single 3·64 B
placing expt.)
(pottery)
China glost 21 0·32 9¹⁄₂ 0·16 (single 1·50 O
 placing expt.)
(pottery)
Majolica- 61 9·11 7¹⁄₂ 3·48 (single 15·00 T
painting of expt.)
tiles
(pottery)

206 53·70 — — 26·10 P

Sand-papering
and dusting 241 116·10 — — 48·10 R
-​
railway
coaches

453 83·10 — — 18·30 A

Sand-papering
coach -​
wheels 1343 1025·60 — — 76·40 O

Sand-papering 600 278·30 — — 46·40 D

motor-car
body
 88 38·70 — — 44·00 W

Sand-papering
motor-car -​
wheels

35 4·70 — — 13·30 S

Sand-papering 494 143·80 — — 29·10 A

van wheel

Burning off old 52 3·40 — — 6·50 W

paint

Dust.—Reference to the table shows that the conditions in the

pottery workrooms, as stated in Column 7, are reflected in Columns
3 and 5. Further details from his experiments may be useful. Thus, in
a dipping room where low-solubility glaze was in use, the amount of
lead in the dust collected per 10 cubic metres of air was 0·70
milligramme. The average of four experiments where there were no
dipping boards was 1·80 milligrammes, and where dipping boards
were used, 3·75; i.e., 1·95 milligrammes of lead in the dust per 10
cubic metres of air is added by the use of dirty dipping boards. As
the result of his experiments, Duckering believes that approximately
1·95 milligrammes of lead per 10 cubic metres of air was due to the
fine spray given off in the shaking of the ware. In bright sunlight, he
says, the spray can be seen dancing high above the dipping tub. In a
dipping house where work was done slowly by two occupants only,
the proportion of lead in the measured quantity of air was also low—
0·58 milligramme per 10 cubic metres. Where, in the absence of
special provision made for admission of fresh air to a fan, the air was
drawn from a neighbouring room in which lead processes were
carried on, the amount of lead rose to 5·76 milligrammes at the level
breathed by the gatherer at a mangle. In ware-cleaning the average
of all his observations where lead was used (eleven) was 3·44
milligrammes; and he concluded that “wet cleaning of ware causes
less direct contamination of the atmosphere, even where no local
exhaust is applied. A still more important result of wet cleaning,
however, is that the overalls keep much freer of dust.” The highest
results were obtained when the process of ware-cleaning was done
outside the influence of the exhaust draught. In one instance, where
the ware was cleaned at a distance of 6 feet from the exhaust
opening, 13·34 milligrammes per 10 cubic metres of air were found.
Subsequently at the same point, after the exhaust system of
ventilation had been remodelled, 0·95 milligramme only was present.
Even in a stillage room in which no work was done other than the
placing on and removal of the boards from the racks, the lead
content per 10 cubic metres of the air was 1·08 milligrammes. In
glost-placing, the average of four experiments was 1·83
milligrammes—no doubt the result of glaze on the boards. As much
as 9·11 milligrammes of lead was found per 10 cubic metres of air in
the centre of a large majolica-painting room, with wooden floors and
much traffic in it. Wooden floors generally appeared to influence the
results, as determinations of the lead present were higher in rooms
with them than with tiled floors.
 In coach-painting the proportion of lead found by Duckering in the
air breathed during the actual time of sand-papering explains the
severe incidence of poisoning in this class of work. The table shows
the amount of lead in the air to be enormous, and in many cases
much in excess of the amount found in the air when wiping off in the
tinning of hollow-ware. The work of sand-papering is, however, very
rarely continuous, the time occupied in it being, for the painter, about
one to two hours daily; for the brush hand, two to three and a half
hours; and for the painter’s labourer, four to five hours.
Knowing intimately the processes at which the estimations
recorded in the table were made, the relative frequency of cases of
plumbism reported among those employed at them, and the duration
of employment prior to attack, we believe that, if the amount of lead
present in the air breathed contains less than 5 milligrammes per 10
cubic metres of air, cases of encephalopathy and paralysis would
never, and cases of colic very rarely, occur. And this figure is a quite
practical one in any process amenable to locally-applied exhaust
ventilation. Somewhere about 2 milligrammes, or 0·002 gramme, of
lead we regard as the lowest daily dose which, inhaled as fume or
dust in the air, may, in the course of years, set up chronic plumbism.
Local Exhaust Ventilation.—In considering preventive
measures against lead poisoning, precedence must be given to
removal of fumes and dust by locally-applied exhaust ventilation, as,
unfortunately, the wearing of a respirator is neither in itself a
sufficient protection, nor, if it were, could the constant wearing of one
be enforced. A respirator is of no use against lead fume. In the case
of dust, the conditions which it must fulfil to be effective are, first, that
the air breathed is freed from dust, and, secondly, that it should not
incommode the wearer. Further, it should be simple in construction,
easily applied, and allow of frequent renewal of the filtering medium.
No existing respirator of moderate price conforms quite satisfactorily
with these requirements. The more closely to the face it is made to
fit, and the more effectually the air is filtered, the greater is the
inconvenience experienced when it is worn. This inconvenience is
due to the exertion (showing itself in increase of the respiratory
movements and pulse-rate) caused in aspirating the air through the
filtering medium, and rebreathing some portion of the expired breath,
containing a much greater proportion of carbonic acid gas and of
moisture at a higher temperature than are present in fresh air.
Respirators, therefore, except for work lasting a short time—half an
hour to an hour—cannot be considered an effective or sufficient
means of protecting the worker against dust. If a respirator must be
worn, the simplest form is a pad of ordinary non-absorbent cotton-
wool (absorbent wool quickly becomes sodden and impervious),
about 3 inches by 4 inches, placed over the mouth and nostrils, and
kept in position by elastic bands passed round the ears. The pad
should be burnt after use.
With a smooth, impervious floor, however, and ventilation
designed to remove the fumes and dust at, or as near as possible to,
the point of origin, lead poisoning would become very rare in most of
the industries to be described. The essential points of such a system
are—(1) The draught or current of air set in motion either by heat or
by a fan; (2) the ducts along which the current travels; (3) the hoods
or air-guides designed to intercept and catch the fumes and dust at
the point of generation; (4) inlets from the outside air into the room to
replace continuously the air extracted, and, in many cases, (5) a
suitable dust filter or collector.
Exhaust by Heat.—Processes giving rise to fumes or to dust
liberated on stirring or skimming, which can be dealt with by the
draught created in the furnace flue or over a bath of molten metal
provided with adequate hood and duct up which the heated air
travels, are—Smelting, refining, spelter manufacture, and the
numerous operations necessitating the melting of lead, such as
tinning with a mixture of tin and lead, sheet lead and lead piping,
stereo pots in letterpress printing, pattern-making, tempering springs,
file-hardening, etc. The dusting of red-hot metallic surfaces, as in
vitreous enamelling, might possibly also be dealt with in the same
way. The disadvantage of the exhaust by heat is the uncertainty and
inequality of the draught, and the size of the duct necessary to cope
with the volume of rarefied air from above the molten vessel.
The closer the hood is brought down over the point where the
fumes escape, the less risk is there of cross-currents deflecting them
into the workroom. Hence all baths of molten metal should have the
sides and back closed in, leaving as small a space open in front as is
practicable in view of necessary skimming or other operations.
In the case of tinning baths, Duckering[4] describes completely
successful results when from the top of the hood a shaft at least 24
inches in diameter was carried vertically upwards into the open air to
a height of 18 feet, and the top of the shaft fitted with a wind screen
in the form of a very large cone, having its lower edge below the
upper edge of the shaft, and its nearest point at least 8 inches from
the top of the shaft. Smoke produced in large quantity at any point 6
inches outside the front of the hood was entirely drawn into it. As,
however, the inrush of air caused an eddy of the fumes at the upper
edge of the opening, the edges of the hood were turned inwards, so
that the operation of wiping was done in a sort of short tunnel. In
general, it may be said that the diameter of pipes leading from hoods
to the outer air (on the efficacy of the draught in which success
depends) is much too small. Frequently mere increase in size will
convert an indifferent draught into a good one. The height of the
hood also—i.e., the distance between its lower border and the point
where it joints the duct—is of importance. The shorter this distance
is, the less serviceable does it become for the removal of fume.
Indeed, it may even retain the fume which, were the hood not
present, would rise to the roof. Sometimes safety is increased by
making the hood double, leaving a space between the two sheets,
and so concentrating the draught at the centre and at the margin.
With a fan, ducts of less diameter can be used than when
dependence is placed on heat alone. A duct carried into a chimney-
stack has the advantage of dispersing the fume at a safe distance
from the workroom.
The variableness of the draught produced by heat makes it
unsuitable for removal of dust, except such as arises from skimming.
The receptacle for the skimmings should always be kept inside the
canopy of the hood. We have, however, seen the dust given off in
the heading of yarn dyed with chromate of lead successfully carried
away under hoods connected up by branch ducts with the main
chimney-stack.
 Fig. 1.—Davidson’s Sirocco Propeller Fan.

Exhaust by Fans.—The draught for removal of dust, and

frequently also of fumes, is produced by a fan, of which there are two
types: (1) low-pressure volume fans and (2) high-pressure
centrifugal fans. In the first the draught is created by the rotation of a
wheel with inclined vanes, causing the air to be driven transversely
through the wheel parallel to the axis of rotation (Fig. 1). During a
revolution a portion of the air is cut off from one side of the wheel,
and transferred through the wheel to the other. Such fans are light,
run easily, and are cheap. They are of many forms, both with regard
to the number of blades—from two to eight—and general manner in
which they are arranged. Some closely resemble the screw-propeller
of a ship, while others have blades turned over and fastened on an
outer rim. Their main defect is inability to overcome any but slight
resistance in the course of suction behind, as from constriction in, or
friction along the sides of, the ducts and right-angled bends, or of
outflow in front, as from wind-pressure. Under favourable conditions,
however, and when carefully fitted, a volume fan will exhaust dust
and fumes through a system of ducts several feet in length, as, for
example, from mono and linotype machines and electro melting-pots
in letterpress printing works. But, in order to avoid resistance from
friction, the ducts have to be somewhat larger in diameter than when
a centrifugal fan is used. With nine[A] linotype machines connected
up to a 14-inch propeller fan, the branch ducts should be about 4
inches in diameter, and the main duct 12 inches, increasing from 12
to 15 inches within 2 feet of the fan-box. The shorter and straighter
the course of the duct to the propeller fan, the more efficiently it
works. Wind-guards are necessary to overcome resistance from this
source in front, but their position requires to be carefully considered,
so as to prevent the screen itself crippling the outflow.
[A] If gratings are also inserted in the same duct for general ventilation the
number of machines must be decreased pro ratâ.

All fans require frequent cleaning, and in this respect propeller

fans have the advantage over centrifugal, in that they are usually
more accessible.
 Fig. 2.—Davidson’s Dust Centrifugal Fan.

Centrifugal Fans.—Generally, in the removal of dust, a strong

suction has to be set up in a system of narrow ducts by means of a
centrifugal fan—i.e., a fan-wheel formed by a number of vanes
attached to an axle mounted in a spiral-shaped casing—so that
when the wheel rotates air is carried along by the vanes, and flies off
tangentially into the space between the blades and the casing, and
thence to the outlet (Fig. 2). The air inlet or junction of the fan with
the exhaust duct is at the centre of the fan, an arrangement by which
the kinetic energy created by the rapid motion of the air leads to
increase of draught instead of being wasted in production of eddies
in the surrounding spaces. They are made in many different
patterns, according to the nature of the work to be done. Their