Chapter Ten

It doesn’t take long to reach the house, but I berate myself the whole way. I never, ever screw up my morning run unless I’m sick or the weather’s so terrible that airports shut down. I shouldn’t be sprinting like this, because it’s my easy day. And I definitely shouldn’t have ended my run early. Ugh. What’s wrong with me?

That damn kiss threw me off. It shouldn’t have happened. Why did I just…let him? And that sound I made? No, no, no.

I shake my head, even though no amount of headshaking is going to erase the kiss. How could I have just forgotten about my plan to ignore him as much as possible? Now all my good work is out the window because I screwed up. Kissing him back is definitely a sign of encouragement. Men may be obtuse as hell when it comes to “get away from me” signals, but they’re extra-sensitive if it’s something encouraging, even if it’s ridiculously minor, like a tiny smile.

The wetness between my legs further intensifies my annoyance. It’s from the sweat. I ran extra hard today.

Right. All that unusual moisture is just sweat.

Shut up, I tell myself.

By the time I’m back in my room, I’m still out of breath. My lungs are burning, my sides are burning, and even my skin is burning…especially the spot on my neck where Luke bit and licked it.

Well. It’s probably because he scraped it with his stubble. There couldn’t be any other reason. And it didn’t feel that great, I decide. It was sort of scratchy…and made my skin feel all prickly and slightly warm. But warmth doesn’t necessarily mean good! No! Warmth can indicate diseases. Like…um…fever.

After stripping down and tossing all my sweaty clothes into the laundry bin, I scrub myself with extra-hot water and soap, my hands rough with irritation. Once I’m finished, I march naked to the mirror and check the spot on my neck. Surprisingly, there’s no mark. My shoulders sag, and I let out a long sigh. Then I immediately straighten up. I should be thrilled my neck doesn’t look molested. Yes, that’s it. Thrilled. I sighed because I was…relieved.

Right.

After wrapping myself in a robe—black, of course—I chug down two cups of extra-strong coffee. But the caffeine doesn’t give me the clarity of mind I’m after. The only thing it does is force me to realize I can’t make adjustments if I’m not honest about the current situation.

Which kind of means I have to admit I wasn’t wet because of, you know…sweat. I’m not inexperienced or stupid. The kiss told me Luke would give me the kind of sex I’ll never forget, and I did want to scream his name in bed. I purse my lips. I still do.

Since I have a little time before I need to get ready for work, I take my laptop and look Luke up. Okay, I hack into his Facebook account, because hey, a girl’s gotta do her homework before committing to any specific course of action.

Ever since high school, I’ve made it a policy to review men before doing anything with them. You wouldn’t hire a person without references, would you? So why should I date a guy without vetting him thoroughly? I even did it for Jan when I realized things might get serious between her and Matt.

Not that things are necessarily going in that direction between me and Luke. That’s not why I’m doing this. But since I kissed him—well, more like the reverse—I feel like I should know.

Except Facebook yields very little. He’s single—which is good—with parents in Arlington, Virginia…but that’s all. He barely has any posts or photos. He’s had three updates since January, and one of those was “Happy New Year.” He has so little information that Facebook doesn’t even serve him any ads, which means he might as well not exist.

And it only gets worse. He has no Twitter account, no Instagram…or anything else. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume he was indeed from the caveman era and didn’t feel comfortable using technology. Or he’s a CIA agent whose handler forgot to build a convincing backstory.

Okay, girl. This isn’t a scenario from Free Radicals. Forget the pointless direction your mind keeps wandering in and focus.

The government databases would have something on him, except I’m not crazy enough to hack into them. Orange is so not my color.

Since his profile has nothing useful, I look up his parents. And get tons of hits.

His father, Beau Madison, is an English lit professor with lots of significant publications under his belt and a bunch of public recognition. Still an attractive man, he looks distinguished, with silver at his temples. He has the same gray eyes and narrow-bladed nose that Luke has. From the way his chiseled bones come out so sharply in the face shot, it’s obvious he’s still in great shape for an academic in his early sixties.

Luke’s mother, Patrice, is a delicate brunette, a little younger than Beau, and comes from a wealthy family. I find a photo of them together at some kind of an ivory tower event. She isn’t particularly striking, her blue eyes slightly unfocused and dull in the picture, although her mouth is beautiful, still plump and smooth as she smiles. Luke got the best features from both of his parents, lucky him. Some children end up with the worst.

But other than the fact that they’re materially comfortable—a zip code can tell you a lot—there’s nothing really illuminating. They don’t have social media accounts where they brag about their son.

I sigh with disappointment, but quickly regroup. I’m not the giving-up type. All I need to do is persist until I have what I need.

After drying my hair, I select my outfit with care. One long-sleeve black dress, two cute Mary Janes in black calf leather, and some fancy eye makeup later, I’m ready. The skirt is just long enough to be okay for the office, but short enough to show off my toned legs.

I spend most of the morning in meetings. They aren’t often productive, more of a necessary evil of the job. Of course, I didn’t always think they were evil. Getting invited used to make me feel important—back when I was an intern two summers ago.

At five to eleven, I grab my laptop, a fresh cup of coffee, three bags of sour gummy worms, and make my way to the fourteenth floor.

Erin’s seated outside David’s office, her pale face pinched as she glares at the huge external monitor.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Hey,” she says, smoothing her blonde locks. Her hair’s so fine that it’s a bit tough to manage. I’ve never seen it totally sleek, ever. We make a little small talk, and as we do, she’s clicking around with her mouse. Finally, she sighs.

“Computer trouble?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says distractedly. “Nothing you can help with.”

I squint. Them’s fightin’ words. If my sleeves weren’t fitted so tightly, I’d be rolling ’em up. “What is it?” There are very few computer problems I can’t solve.

“Um. It’s my apartment, actually? My landlord’s selling the building? And she wants me to move out by the end of the month.”

“Wow. Is that legal?” Maybe I should see if Matt can help. Sadly, neither Nathan nor Stan is licensed in Virginia.

“I guess…? I’m on a month-to-month basis. It’s hard to move on such short notice. There aren’t many places within my budget.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. You want to see David?”

“Yeah. I have a meeting with him to start on the specs.”

“Right.” She skims what looks like a printout of the week’s agenda, then bites her lower lip. “I sent out the invite last night.”

“That you did,” I say with a nod when she doesn’t continue. She seems good at her job—otherwise David would’ve never kept her—but she’s so hesitant and unsure. If I could, I’d give her a dollop of Nathan’s confidence. That brother of mine believes he’s God’s gift to the planet.

Her cheeks pink, she gets up. “David’s in. Do you…need anything for the meeting?”

“Nope. Get back to apartment hunting.”

David’s office is neat, like the man himself. And he’s in a button-down shirt and slacks, no jacket or tie. He smiles when he sees me come in. “On time, as always.”

I smile back. “How was your weekend?”

“Great, thanks.”

I look for signs of unhappiness. Just because a man says “great, thanks” doesn’t mean things are really great. Isn’t he supposed to be emotionally diseased at the moment—some non-terminal mental cancer—and self-medicating with that girl in anything-but-black? Or was she so good that he’s already cured?

I wait for some kind of emotion to stir. Maybe jealousy that she did what I couldn’t—or relief that he’s ready to move on. But if my mind were a lake surface, it would be a sheet of glass.

There’s nothing.

Maybe I need to finish my coffee to process my current state. There’s no way I can be this apathetic.

David continues, “Listen, I couldn’t have been more pleased when Tim said you were going to work on the specs. I know you’ll do a great job.”

A smile lifts a corner of my mouth. No matter how many times people praise me, it never gets old. Because my career matters, and I do my best to ensure I’ll never be pushed out of my very competitive field.

Oh wait. I just felt something…which means there’s enough caffeine coursing through my veins.

So… I honestly felt nothing about David and the other girl’s effect on him?

Shaking myself inwardly, I pull up a chair. Maybe I’m not perturbed because I know she doesn’t mean anything. What did Michelle say about men and keeping rebound girls?

Yeah. Not happening. So the girl means nothing.

David and I sit closely so we can share a laptop—mine. Then as I pull up a template to fill out, I lean even closer—very subtly, of course; I’m not a total newbie here—and wait for something to happen between us…

Like a spark.

It isn’t something I’ve ever felt around him. But that’s because I made sure I never experienced it. He wasn’t single, and I have a strict rule about stuff like that. Despite what happened a few hours ago, Luke and I aren’t anything. We kissed. It was hot as hell. Okay, the hottest I’ve ever had. But that’s it, nothing more. I’m sure David can easily top it.

All I have to do is make myself totally receptive to the irresistible attraction between us.

David smells good, he’s as handsome as ever, and I like him. His mouth is well shaped, his lips firm and slightly chapped where they meet each other. But…

I try to imagine what it would be like for him to kiss me. He’s probably an excellent kisser. A guy can’t keep a girlfriend for so many years if he’s lousy at it. Would he be firm and controlled? Maybe soft?

No matter what, I can’t seem to lose myself in the thought of it. It’s probably because he keeps going on about the app features, which he’s really excited about. It’s tough to go from tech excitement to smut excitement. Although my job is awesome, it’s not exactly dirty talk material.

But it’s more than that. Something just isn’t there. I even let my arm and bare leg brush against him, but…nothing. I felt more rubbing my frozen limbs against a utility pole during a blizzard on a drunken dare in college.

What the hell?

After the chat, I thank him for his time and promise to send him a preliminary draft for review before I write up the detailed specs. He gives me a warm smile. “Thanks for taking the time. I understand this isn’t your favorite task.”

“We always take turns, so it’s okay.” I give him a pat grin, then leave, more confused than ever before.

And I spend all day reviewing what happened—or didn’t happen—at the meeting, even as my fingers type up the draft I owe him. I’ve written a ton of them, so it doesn’t take much focus to pull one together.

I shoot an email to David that afternoon with the preliminary version and work on refining features from the last update. Coding doesn’t help either. Even Tim asks me if I’m okay, and I tell him I’m fine—it’s a policy of mine not to discuss my personal life with my team lead.

When I have a little break, I see a text from Michelle to me and Jan.

–Michelle: How’d it go with David?

–Jan: Are you wearing something hot?

Jan spent the night at Matt’s house, but she, like Michelle, knows I always put on something nicer than usual when I know I’m going to be in a meeting with David.

–Michelle: She’s showing off her legs today, which are fantastic, by the way.

I do have great legs. All the running has paid off in that department. I know my friends are expecting a response, but I’m not sure what to say. The whole thing just…didn’t go the way I wanted…or hoped for.

–Sammi: It was just a meeting.

–Jan: It’s never just a meeting when it involves him.

–Michelle: You didn’t do anything stupid, did you, Sammi? Like make a premature move?

–Sammi: Not really.

There’s a small pause. Michelle’s most likely frowning. She overthinks things a lot. It’s a personality tic that makes her good at her HR job.

–Michelle: You either did or didn’t.

–Sammi: It’s hard to explain.

I’m still not sure what the hell really happened.

–Michelle: We need to do a postmortem.

–Jan: Definitely. After work?

I make a face. Postmortems are great when they aren’t about you. There’s a reason why it’s called a postmortem.

–Sammi: Don’t you have to go bang Matt or something?

There. That should distract Jan. As for Michelle…

–Jan: He’s working late again. *pout* I think it’s against a bunch of labor laws to make him work so much.

I smirk. She doesn’t know he’s been working like a demon because he’s taking her on a secret week-long getaway this Saturday. Matt, being a smart fellow, asked me and Michelle to pack Jan’s bag, since he would undoubtedly forget something important. I’m pretty certain he’s going to propose. Just got this feeling, and it’s killing me to keep my mouth shut, but I’m not ruining things for my best friend.

–Sammi: I’m sure he knows what laws are being broken better than you.

–Michelle: I’m going to pick up pizza. We can do the postmortem at home.

I sigh. There’s no way to stop them when they’ve decided to gang up on poor little moi. Maybe I should start a yoga class this evening to avoid talking to them. I give it two seconds of thought then shake my head. Stupid idea. They’d just join me and pester me in the middle of a downward dog.

And the last thing I want is to discuss my failing love life with my ass in the air.