TWELVE

Shirtless Houseboy

Twenty minutes and two muscle relaxants later, and I’m feeling nooooo pain. Max has set me up on my couch with an ice pack nestled on my lower back, and now he’s in my kitchen making tea. I told him I don’t drink tea, but he didn’t listen. He’s opening and closing cupboards as he searches for stuff, and I’m pretending that he’s my sexy houseboy. I’ve always wanted one of those. It would be so useful to have one around in case I needed to ... well ... you know, get stuff off high shelves. Or ... I don’t know ... open jars. His only real job would be to walk around without a shirt and occasionally flex. Oh, and provide orgasms on request.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever just take off your shirt and flex in front of a mirror? You know, to perv on your own hotness?”

“No. Do you ever take off your shirt and caress your breasts, just for the hell of it?”

I shrug. “Sometimes. When I get stressed, I cup my boobs and give them a reassuring squeeze.”

“Good information. Next time you’re stressing I’ll have to try that.”

I flop back into the cushions. My boobs are now tingling. Great.

More doors open and close, and I hear him mutter. “Jesus.”

“Everything okay?”

“There’s zero logic to your cupboard contents. I’ve now found tea in three separate places.”

“Yeah, if only I had a decent shirtless houseboy to take care of me and rearrange everything.”

He walks over and stands above me, all tall and broad-shouldered, with those long legs and a butt I’d like to sink my teeth into. “Are you suggesting I should take off my shirt?”

I blink up at him. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s pretty warm in here. You can if you want. Okay, fine, stop hassling me. I won’t stop you.”

He stares me down as he grabs the bottom of his T-shirt. “You want this?”

He pulls up his shirt to reveal a crazy-impressive six-pack, but as I try to sit up to get a better look, my wince of pain makes him drop to his knees in concern.

“Relax,” he says, pushing me back down and readjusting my ice pack. “If you behave yourself and stay still, I’ll take off my shirt later.”

“Really?”

“No. But stay still anyway. How are you feeling?”

“Awesome. The drugs have kicked in, and I’m fiiiiine.” I touch his face, because ... well, why not? It’s there, and it’s pretty, and wow ... his mouth is so pretty. And so annoying. It’s annoying how symmetrical he is. And how piercing his eyes are. And don’t even get me started on the eyebrows, eyelashes, and cheek bones, not to mention the mouth. “You’re handsome.”

His lips quirk. “And you’re stoned. Is your back still spasming?”

“Nope, it’s loosey-goosey, salmon-moosey.” I giggle as I graze my hand down his neck and onto his chest, because he’s so fracking attractive, it’s hilarious.

Max doesn’t giggle, however. He presses his lips together as I investigate the muscles of his chest. He shouldn’t look perturbed. After all, I’m an investigative journalist. This is a natural extension of my craft.

He must not appreciate my technique, because everywhere I touch, tenses.

“What are you doing?” His voice is doing that dark, sexy thing.

“Research.”

“Miss Tate –”

“Stop calling me that. My name’s Eden.”

“I call you Miss Tate because it helps me try to keep things more formal between us.”

“Uh huh.” His eyelids flutter as I graze his nipple through his T-shirt. “How’s that working out for you?”

He puts his hand over mine to stop my exploration. “Well, it’s freaking pointless when you touch me like that. Do you realize you’re a handsy drunk?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

He stands and mutters, “Only when I’m trying to ignore how goddamn attracted I am to you.” He stalks back into the kitchen, and I flop back into the couch and stare at the ceiling.

Honestly, having him in my apartment is weird. He’s not a friend. He’s not a lover. He’s a walking, breathing erogenous zone who fascinates me and infuriates me in equal measure. He’s like a wild beast that can rip out my internal organs with no effort at all, and now that he’s invading my inner sanctum, I’m horrified to find I enjoy having him here. It’s bizarre and unsettling.

“May I ask you something?” I ask while blinking to try and focus my fuzzy vision.

“If you must.”

“If Brick hadn’t taken his hand off me tonight, would you really have broken his arm?”

Something clatters in the sink. “You don’t have to hit someone to do it damage.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.”

He doesn’t answer me. I wish I had a notebook nearby, because while I can usually catalogue this stuff in my head, my brain is too fuzzy, and I want to come back to this subject when I’m sober.

“Have you ever gotten into a fight over a woman?” I ask.

“Several times.”

“And? Did you always win?”

Again, silence. Then he says, “No. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do it again ... and do it better.” When the electric kettle beeps, I hear all manner of pouring and stirring.

A couple of minutes later, he places a steaming cup on the coffee table in front of me and pulls the table closer, so I can reach it. Holding his own cup, he sits in the armchair next to me.

I sip the tea, surprised that I like it. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, I didn’t spike it. Just in case you were wondering.”

He watches me as I drink, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to how he looks at me. It’s like he’s trying to show me his true self through clairvoyance, while hiding everything else about him.

“I’m sorry I got angry with you earlier,” he says quietly. “When I came to the bar tonight, I wasn’t expecting to be accused of criminal activity. It took me by surprise.”

“Why did you come?”

He holds his cup with both hands and looks down into it, as if he’s searching for answers. “I wanted to apologize. I thought you ran out on me because of what happened when I hugged you.”

“Which was?”

He looks up at me, surprised. “You don’t know?”

I shake my head. “I was too busy being paranoid about being dosed and high. Did you steal my Starbucks loyalty card from my purse when I wasn’t looking or something? Because that would piss me off. I’m one star off getting a freebie.”

He puts his cup on the table and rests his elbows on his knees. “Miss Tate, I usually manage to keep a certain veneer of professionalism between myself and my clients, but last night with you, I ... failed.”

“Failed, how?”

He takes in a breath and exhales. “Do you really need me to say it?”

“Max, I’m highly medicated right now, and my brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, so, yeah. Please say it, so I can stop feeling dumb.”

Embarrassment flits across his features. “When you were upset after the song and I hugged you, I was ... aroused. I didn’t mean to be, but having you on my lap, and then hugging you, I ...” He looks at the floor and shakes his head. “I thought you felt it when I pressed against you. Or heard it when I moaned. That’s why I was ashamed of myself when you ran out.”

To be honest, I barely hear anything after ‘aroused’. That word uttered in his white-hot voice has set fire to my face and body. For the first time in a long time, I’m at a loss for words.

I do my best space cadet impersonation as I struggle to find something witty to say.

He looks over at me. “Miss Tate? Did you hear me?”

“Yes, I just ... uh .... apology accepted, I guess. Don’t beat yourself up.” When I realize my pun, I squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment. “Sorry. Total accident. Plus, I have no idea if you beat yourself after I left. If you did, great. Go, you.”

A heavy silence falls between us, but my brain is still fixated on what he just told me.

“So,” I say, trying to connect the dots, “you were attracted to me? Or was is Caleb?”

He pauses for so long, I wonder if he’s going to answer. Then he says, “Both, and that’s something that I haven’t experienced before.” I stare at him, and he shifts in his seat. “Why do you seem so surprised?”

“I just didn’t think I’d be your type.”

He makes a scoffing noise in his throat. “You’re everyone’s type.”

My hackles rise. “Are you judging me for having a healthy sex life? Because it might not have filtered into your eighteenth-century gentleman’s brain, but these days women are free to sleep with whomever they choose, as often as they like, and in whatever position floats their boat. And I don’t think it’s fair for you to –”

“Miss Tate ...” He gives me a patient look. “I wasn’t making a moral judgement. I was trying to say that you’re an amazing woman, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a man who wasn’t attracted to you.”

Goddammit. That’s even worse. “You don’t have to say that. We’re not on a date right now.”

“I’m aware of that.”

I drop my gaze and look at his chest. “Men say those things all the time without meaning them.”

“I’m saying them because they’re true.”

He stares, unflinching in his conviction. I stare back, more affected by him and his smooth words than I should be. Despite the commotion that starts in my body every time we’re together, I don’t crave this feeling, and I don’t crave him. He may be different from any man I’ve met, but that doesn’t make him a good man. There must be something wrong with someone who gets his jollies by turning women into piles of aroused goo.

“Why aren’t you out tonight with some client?”

“I’m not seeing clients right now.”

“Because?”

He sips his tea. “I’m seeing you.”

“You can’t do both?”

“I’d rather not.” He looks down at his hands. “Out of all the ladies I know, I find you the most ... interesting.”

“I’m not interesting at all. I’m a simple creature with simple needs.”

“I disagree. You’re one of the most complicated women I’ve ever met.” He leans forward and brushes my hair away from my face, and I blame the drugs for making me feel so entirely mesmerized by him.

“Miss Tate, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Hmmm?”

“Have you ever had sex with someone you loved?”

For a second, I think he’s making another criticism about my sex life, but when I check his expression, I see only open sincerity.

“No,” I say, unsure whether I should be admitting that. “Have you?”

“Off the record?”

“Yeah.”

He shakes his head. “The one thing I’ve learned while doing this work is that as much as I enjoy playing out romantic fantasies, it’s still just pretend, and more and more I’m craving something real.”

For a few seconds he studies my face, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Then he comes and sits next to me on the couch and coaxes me up until my back is facing him. “Lift your shirt. I want to assess the damage.” I help him ease up my shirt, so he can see my lower back. “Still painful?”

“A little.”

He places his hand over the area and presses gently. The heat of his skin is a nice change after the ice. He lowers the shirt then runs his fingers slowly up and down my spine over the top of the fabric. It makes me shiver with goosebumps and at the same time drains the tension from my muscles. When I drop my head forward to give him better access, he gently scrapes his nails from my tailbone up into the hair at the base of my neck. The sensation is so incredible, I moan.

“Feel good?”

“God ... yessss.” He keeps going, and I can’t remember a time when a man has touched me in such a selfless way. Why is he doing this? Hanging around. Making sure I’m okay. I mean, he gets bonus points for just escorting me home. Why the rest of this charade?

“Max, do you usually pamper clients in your spare time?”

He pauses his movements. “No. In fact, I make a point of not interacting with them outside of a business setting. Otherwise, the situation can get complicated.”

“I figured. So why are you here? Taking care of me?”

“Because you needed someone to make sure you were okay.”

“Not really. I would have coped by myself.”

“Is that your goal in life? To just cope? Alone?”

“No, I just ... if you’re trying to suck up so I’ll give you a good write up, or whatever, well ...” He starts with his fingernails again, and I let out a low moan. “Oh, maaaaan. Good job.”

He chuckles, and I close my eyes and sigh. I’m going to have to amend my opinion on magic to exclude Max’s hands. drop my head forward and hover in a bizarre zone of part relaxation, part arousal.

“Max, have your clients ever complained about your whole sex ban on dates? I mean, you’re an attractive guy. How can they be satisfied with only kissing you?”

He takes his hands away, and when I turn to look at him, I can see amusement on his face.

“Tell me,” he says. “What’s the point of sex?”

“Do you think that because I’m a woman I’ll say ‘intimacy’, or ‘the physical expression of love’?”

“No. Give me your honest answer. Why do you have sex?”

I tilt my chin up. “Orgasms.”

“But you can have them by yourself.”

Okay. Good point. “It feels better when someone else does it.”

“Why?”

“I ... don’t know.”

He maneuvers me so my back is against the arm of the couch before shoving some pillows behind me for support.

“Okay, then I’ll tell you. Sex is a ritual. It’s more than just physical reactions.” He pulls my legs up into his lap then takes my hand and lays it, palm up, in his. As he talks, he draws a spiral on the sensitive skin over and over again. “If you think of sex as a generator, fueled by the relentless build-up of tension, then the release happens when the tension snaps, providing waves of pleasure. Yes?”

Jesus, that single finger moving over my palm is drawing me tighter each second. With the amount of sex I’ve had over the years, how the hell is this the most erotic experience that’s ever happened to me?

“Miss Tate?”

“What? I mean, uh ... yes.”

“We don’t need to be naked to simulate a similar concept.”

He places my hand back in my lap and focuses on my mouth. “When you kiss someone for the first time, adrenaline courses through your veins.” He inches forward, just enough for me to become fixated on his mouth. “See how our muscles tighten? And the closer we get, the stronger the sensations become.” His eyelids become heavy as he gazes at me. “This intense sexual tension is pleasurable in itself, right? It makes your heart race. Your lungs seize.”

At this point I realize how shallow my breaths are. How ragged and fast. The tension he’s speaking of is turning in on itself and creating a ball that’s filling my chest.

When he cups my cheek, the brush of his skin against mine makes the ball expand.

“And as my lips move closer and closer,” he says, his voice soft, “… the tension is almost unbearable. Want turns into need, which turns into compulsion.”

He’s so close now, we’re breathing the same air, and I can almost feel the crackle of electricity surrounding us.

“And when our lips finally touch,” he whispers, closer still. “all the breath will rush from our lungs, because it’s like a tightrope has snapped beneath our feet, and all we can do is close our eyes and revel in how it feels to fall.”

He stays there, keeping me at the pinnacle of sensation, dizzy and breathless and trembling with more need than I knew my body could feel.

His deep, rough voice adds another layer to my reaction.

“Do you want me to kiss you, Miss Tate?”

God, yes.

And God, no.

There’s no easy answer to this question. Kissing him would be wonderful and terrible. It would be like claiming a lion as a pet and counting down the days until it mauled me.

“It’s not a hard question,” he says. “Either you want it to or you don’t.”

“Is this your way of seducing me into dropping my story?”

His nose brushes mine, and I shiver as I grip the front of his shirt.

“That’s one explanation. A cynical one, of course, but I’ve come to expect that from you. Maybe I want to kiss you. Find out how your lips taste.”

“Then why don’t you just do it?”

“Because I promised I wouldn’t without your permission, and honestly, you’re too out of it right now to give informed consent.”

I lean my head against his, so desperate, the ache inside me borders on painful. “Then why are you still torturing me?”

He angles my head the other way, keeping his mouth tantalizingly out of reach.

“Because I wanted you to understand that what you’re feeling right now ... this euphoria ... this is where the essence of romance lives. Have you ever felt this way with any of your sexual partners?”

“Hell, no.” I’ve never felt this with anyone. It’s like every single nerve ending is being magnetically drawn to him, so desperate for contact it’s painful to deny.

He makes a needful sound in his throat. “Then maybe you should move onto a better class of man. One who doesn’t treat you like a vending machine. One you’re genuinely attracted to instead of one who’s just convenient.”

I’m so blurred by hormones and pain killers, it takes me a moment to notice he’s moved off the couch and is now staring down at me. I feel foolish when I realize I’m still pursing my lips, expecting contact.

I clear my throat and compose myself. My heart is hammering so hard, I’m sure he can hear it.

I look up at him. From the expression on his face, I don’t think I’m the only one feeling tortured right now. Then my focus lowers down to his crotch, and dear God ... the long hardness I can spy straining the denim of his jeans is not helping anything right now.

He follows my gaze. “In case you’re wondering, it’s exactly as painful as it looks.”

“You sure I can’t help you out?”

“I’m positive you could, but that would violate even more rules from my personal code of conduct, and considering I’ve already set a record for unprofessional behavior tonight, I’m going to leave.” He looks around the apartment. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

I want to say his hand down my pants, but I don’t think that’s the type of thing he means.

“Maybe you could take off your shirt and do some cleaning.”

He comes over and scoops me off the couch. “Or how about I put you into bed and stay with you until you fall asleep?”

He places me on the bed, and I wince as I turn on my side to get comfortable.

“I liked my idea better,” I say with a pout, as he pulls the covers over me. “Honestly, Max, you’re the worst shirtless-houseboy I’ve ever owned.” I yawn. “We’re going to have words at your next employee review.”

He chuckles as I close my eyes and start to fade. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Tate. I hope to please you more next time we meet.”

Unconsciousness begins to wrap me in soft grayness as I mumble, “You do that. More pleasing, less shirts. Your mistress demands it.”

I sink fast, but I’m still conscious enough to feel warm fingers brush my hair away from my face. “Goodnight, Eden. Sweet dreams.”

As soon as I hear the door to the apartment open and then close with a quiet click, I’m out.

* * *

“Sooooo,” Asha says the next morning as she spoons some scrambled eggs onto my plate. “I ran into a certain hot-bodied escort as I was coming home last night. Care to spill about what happened with him?”

“There’s nothing to spill. I hurt my back at the bar. He brought me home. End of story.”

“Oh, what crap, Eden. I saw his face when he arrived at the bar last night, and I saw it when he left our apartment. That man has it bad, so don’t tell me he didn’t get happy in his pants over you, because that’s a damn lie.”

I finish off my breakfast as quickly as possible. “Ash, come on. It’s too early for this.” Plus, I can’t tell you about Max, because that would make what I’m feeling for him way too real, and I’d rather just ignore it.

“Look, sis, I don’t want to make a big deal about this, but just between us ... how big a deal are we talking about?” She holds her hands five inches apart. “I’m just going to keep widening this gap, and you tell me when I’ve reached his Max-imum length, okay?”

I laugh as she keeps widening the gap. When she reaches what looks to be about nine inches, I raise my eyebrows, and she slaps the counter with both hands. “No way! Seriously?”

I walk around to wash up my plate. “Ash, I’m writing a story on him, and he’s sucking up to make sure I don’t crucify him. That’s it. We aren’t a thing. Please stop trying to make us one.”

“It is a thing if that man is carrying around a gargantuan boner for you. Don’t tell me you aren’t desperate to ride that fine piece of maleness.”

I kiss her on the cheek. “I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Eden! Have mercy! I’ve been waiting years for you to meet someone like him, and now you’re freezing me out? No fair!”

I can still hear her calling out to me when I close the door and head down the stairs. I’m halfway to the subway station when my phone buzzes with a message.

<How’s the back?>

I feel myself smiling and immediately force myself to stop. I also put a kibosh on the urge to text him right back. And that giant swarm of butterflies that just took flight in my stomach can bite me, too. Feeling this way over a guy is not on my to-do list today; or ever, for that matter.

Maybe he didn’t drug me, but he certainly isn’t playing fair. He knows how attractive I find him and is systematically wearing me down so he can claim victory on our bet. Well, he’ll soon come to learn that conning a woman who slaps down dozens of romantic fantasies before breakfast is going to be harder than he thinks.

I hit my favorite caffeine supplier near the subway station and get myself a big, fat triple-shotter. I need coffee like air this morning. Even with the muscle relaxants and alcohol, I didn’t sleep well. I kept having dreams that Max was in bed with me, all hard and warm and smelling like a spring orchard, touching me like I was precious and making me feel like I could do anything as long as he was by my side. It was the closest thing to a nightmare I’ve had in years.

The only good to come out of it is that it kept me tossing and turning enough to make sure my back didn’t seize up, and even though I get twinges of pain if I bend the wrong way, on the whole I’m feeling much better this morning.

By the time I get to work the coffee has hit my system hard, and I practically bound through the doors to see Toby.

“Good morning, friend!” I hug his back as he continues typing on his keyboard.

“Good morning, friend-who-never-hugs-me-unless-she-wants-something. What can I do for you this fine day?”

I give him my best shocked face. “Toby! I resent the implication that our friendship is based entirely on favors.”

He spins around and leans back in his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh. Okay. Then you don’t want something?”

I scoff. “No, I don’t. Only the pleasure of your sunny disposition and the sight of your handsome face.” I flash my most dazzling smile.

He raises his eyebrows and waits.

I look around at the hive of activity around me and say “Soooo ... I’ll just be ... you know, going to my cubicle now.” I roll back onto my heels. “Yep. Nothing more I want to talk to you about.”

I take a step away from him, and he cocks his head expectantly, maintaining his stony silence.

“Soooo, yeah.” I take another step. “Talk to you later, Tobes.” He watches as I reach the edge of his cubicle and play with an errant thumbtack. “Byeeee.”

I let out a sigh as I head into my office space and collapse into my chair. Within seconds, his head appears above our shared wall. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. What do you want?”

I lean forward onto my desk. “You’re the best, Tobes. I don’t know who else I can ask about this stuff.”

He rolls his eyes and gives me the ‘get on with it’ gesture.

“So,” I say, “I need to find out more about Max, AKA Mister Romance, but the dude isn’t exactly forthcoming. I have to get inside that warehouse we found in Greenpoint, but it’s locked up tighter than my sister’s thighs.” I pull out my phone and bring up the picture of the digital keypad I snapped when I was there. “This is guarding the one accessible door, and it’s right below a camera that feeds to Max’s phone the second anyone activates it. Is there a way to disable it? Or work out the passcode?”

Toby takes my phone and studies the photo. “This looks like a pretty standard six-digit system.” He hands the phone back to me. “Hang on a second. I may have something.”

He disappears for a few seconds then pops up again and shows me a high-tech-looking stainless-steel rectangle that has a small digital display on one side. He looks around to make sure no one is listening before holding out the device like it’s the Holy Grail. “Take this. When you get it close enough to the keypad, press the black button. It will emit a high-density electronic pulse that should be powerful enough to knock out the lock and the camera in one fell swoop.”

I widen my eyes and reach for the device. “Holy shit, Tobes. Really?”

He slaps my hands away and laughs. “No, not really. Jesus Christ, Tate, I’m not James fucking Bond. What the hell do I know about covert warehouse infiltration?”

I point to the thing he’s holding. “Then what’s that?”

“It’s my portable phone charger.” He tosses it back onto his desk and laughs when he sees my crestfallen face. “Aw, don’t pout. You look ridiculous. Forgive me for not being a superhero security expert.”

I flop into my chair. “But you know so much about really obscure crap, I thought you might have had a clue.”

“Nope. Zero clues about these sorts of things. Hacking I can do. Anything else you see in spy movies, not so much. Couldn’t you just ask Max what’s inside the warehouse?”

“Sure, but then he’ll just tell me what he wants me to know, and I’m after the stuff he wants to keep hidden. If he has that much security, there must be valuable info inside, right? I just need to find a way to get to it.”

“Oh, you know I have your back as much as I can. If you can give me any solid facts about this guy, I can go to town tracking his real identity, but I need a place to start.”

“I know, Tobes. Thanks. I’ll see what I can find.”

Toby goes back to his computer, and I pull my hair back into a rough bun as I think about where to go from here. I need biographical info on Max, as well as testimonials from his clients. Then I’ll be able to start painting a balanced portrait that can serve as the jumping-off point for my story.

My computer beeps as an inter-office message pops up on my screen.

 

I want your first 800 words on Mister Romance on my desk by next week.

Derek.

 

Oh, goody. Right now, that will be eight-hundred words of filler and bullshit, and I don’t think Derek would be pleased with that.

I type my reply.

 

Sure thing, bossman! I’m on it!

 

I sign it with three happy faces, just to piss him off.

I’m still wracking my brain for a solution ten minutes later when my phone lights up with Max’s name.

I answer with, “Unless you start being more forthcoming, I’m going to give you a very unfavorable review on Yelp, Mister Romance.”

There’s an amused chuckle before he says, “Well, good morning to you, too. Would you like some cheese to go with that whine?”

“I’m serious, Max. I agreed to your conditions, and you promised me full disclosure, but so far all I’ve gotten is a lot of talk and a night with a non-existent musician. I need more.”

“Such as?”

“Your history. A list of your clients. Testimonials. Interviews. You know, the usual stuff a journalist needs for a story. I have so many questions about why these ladies are so dedicated to you and how they feel about the whole situation. You telling me how they feel and me hearing it from their own mouths are two totally different things.”

“I’ve told you before, my clients won’t divulge anything to a journalist. Apart from the non-disclosure agreements they all signed, talking to you will jeopardize their identities.”

“Then you’d better come up with something that will help me, because I’m on a deadline, and I need to start showing results. If I get kicked from this story, I have no doubt Derek will put someone else on it, and you’ll lose whatever leverage you’ve gained with the whole being nice and taking care of me routine.”

“You honestly can’t comprehend I did that because I care, can you?”

“Pure intentions from a man who manipulates women for a living? Sure. That makes perfect sense. Now, about my story ...”

He pauses then says, “I have an idea that might work, and coincidentally, it meshes with the plans I had for our second date.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to do an immersive date with you, which means you’ll also play a character.”

“Oh, Max, I don’t know. I’m not much of an actress. The only theatrical experience I’ve had is playing second turnip from the left in my third-grade nativity scene, and even then I was so nervous, I almost peed.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. None of my clients are actresses. You’ll be fine. Although, if you still have that turnip costume somewhere, let me know. I can always find a way to work it in.”

I laugh, and it’s a real, pure, girly laugh. I throw my head back and everything. Oh, Lord. What’s become of me?

“Be available Friday night,” he says. “I’ll send through details shortly.”

“Will I need to wear pants and a bra?” I ask. “Because that’s a whole other level of commitment right there, and I don’t know if I’m ready to be that intimate with you yet.”

“Then by all means, consider pants and bras optional. God knows, I won’t be wearing a bra.” He pauses, and it sounds like he’s covering the phone to talk to someone in the background. When he comes back, he says, “I’m sorry, Miss Tate, but I have to go. I’ll be in contact soon.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of your back, and have a great week.”

“You, too. I mean, the great week part. Your back’s fine.” Jesus, stop with the babble. “Okay, bye.”

I hang up, a grin splitting my face. I put down my good mood to being excited about finally moving forward with my story.

Yeah, of course. That’s the reason.

When I spin my chair around to go and get a fresh cup of coffee, Derek is standing two feet away from me, arms folded across his chest.

“Jesus!” I say, pressing my hand over my skipping heart. “Sneak up much, Derek? Isn’t that against company policy or something?”

“No, but do you know what is against company policy? Chatting to your boyfriend on the phone and making heart-eyes so big, I can see them from my office.”

“There’s a wall that blocks me from your view.”

“And yet, here I am to remind you that I don’t pay you to make personal calls.”

“I wasn’t –”

“Of course you weren’t. You just look like a giddy school girl because you were speaking to your accountant. I understand. Now, get the fuck back to work.”

Before I can say anything else, he stalks off toward Accounts.

I swear to God, that man gets more unpleasant every time I see him. If and when this story hits big, I’ll find incredible satisfaction in moving on to a new job where I never have to look at his bastard face again.

Heart-eyes. Pfft. I don’t even know what the hell that is, let alone how to make them.