COFFEE
Charlotte
I’m nervous the next day after what happened in the car between Matt and me. I’m at the kitchenette, sort of wondering if I should go and take him coffee. Maybe because I want to talk about it, to know why he kissed me. Or maybe because I want to see him.
Before I can think better of it, I pour two cups—remembering the time he brought coffee to my desk the night we both stayed in late. I set mine on my desk on the same spot he did, then head to his office and peer past the opening.
“Can I come in?”
Matt was looking over some paperwork and when he lifts his eyes to look at me above the rims of his glasses, my heart trips a little. He nods permission, and I start when I spot Jack getting to his feet from where he was lying by Matt’s desk.
“Hi, Jack,” I say awkwardly. “I brought you coffee,” I then tell Matt as he comes to his feet.
As I hand him the warm cup, the dog races toward Matt and jumps up, desperately trying to lick the coffee mug, accidentally spilling its entire contents over Matt’s shirt.
“Jack, down!” The dog immediately sits, but the coffee is already soaking into the shirt. “Coffee’s his weakness.”
“That’s definitely something you can’t relate to. How does it feel to live a life without vices?” I ask.
He winks at me as he crosses the room to shut the door. As he passes, he gives me a heated once-over, and says, close to my ear, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
My stomach feels like he just lit it on fire with the combination of his words and the look in his eyes as he raises his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Suddenly I’m staring at an expanse of bare chest.
He’s so hot I can barely breathe.
Though it’s a well-published fact that Matt Hamilton looks amazing in clothes, amazing cannot even capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle of his chest is defined and flexed hard. He’s also got silky dark hairs on his chest—and I find this so hot that liquid heat seems to flood between my legs.
Something warm and female starts flickering in my tummy as I stare helplessly at him.
“Hand me that campaign T-shirt?” he asks.
I glance at the shelves behind me. I reach over for a white T-shirt with a purple Hamilton ’16 logo. It’s like a sports jersey.
I hand it over, trying hard not to notice how his slacks accentuate his lean hips, how his broad shoulders taper down inverted-pyramid style to a narrow waist, and how those freaking abs make me want to trace each square with my fingertips. And those incredible arms, the bulging biceps as he lifts the shirt over his head.
“I like it.” I point nervously at the T-shirt.
“I wanted someone to test it out. Guess I found him.”
He pulls it over his head, and I swallow. Oh god.
I can’t stop flushing.
He tosses the stained shirt aside and runs his fingers through his hair. Jack has stealthily gotten up from his ass and is licking the coffee at my feet.
“Oh no, Jack.” I kneel and try to stop him. Matt comes to grab him by the collar and leads him away.
“Well, I don’t think he’ll be getting any sleep,” I say, by way of apology.
“That makes two of us.”
I watch him smile down at his dog and run his hand over his head even as he frowns at him for being mischievous. “You never sleep, do you?” I blurt out.
He lifts his gaze. “Got a lot on my mind. I’m lucky if I grab a few straight hours.” I watch him grab his sodden shirt and drape it over the back of his chair.
“I could wash that for you, Matt,” I say. It just sort of slipped out, but I’m mortified a second after I hear myself say it.
Matt glances at the shirt.
“I mean . . . unless you have . . . you probably have someone to do your laundry.”
“Yeah. My dry cleaners.” He laughs. I feel stupid as he leans over with the napkin I had brought to sop up the coffee, then balls it up and tosses it into the trash can. “But that’s the most titillating proposition I’ve ever received from a woman.”
“Really. It turns you on to get your clothes washed.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
I laugh, then I bite my lip and reach out for the shirt hanging on the back of his chair. His eyes are super hot. I steal out of the room with his shirt folded in my arm.
I don’t sleep more than four hours either that night.
I can’t stop thinking about him, and the fact that we were flirting and his eyes were hot and he is so very hot, and I’m not sure I like it.
I toss and turn, then leap out of bed early in the morning. I’m in the office before almost anyone. I set his clean shirt, perfectly folded, on his desk when he arrives—I know it’s perfect because I tried folding it a bazillion times.
“Good morning, Matt.”
I walk by, and he catches my fingers for a second as I pass. “Good morning, Charlotte.”