He takes a sip of coffee and then clears his throat. “As unbearable as you are,” he starts.
“Excuse m—”
“Oh shut it, woman,” he barks. I laugh. He smiles wide, turning toward me but still not actually looking at me. “As completely horrible as it is to be around you, I’m afraid I need you to clear your plans Friday evening.”
“For?” I ask.
He winces, “A Halloween party.” I start to groan and he cuts me off. “It gets worse.”
“How could it?” I whine.
“Saturday we also have the Halloween party here in town, according to your spreadsheet. So that’s two nights in a row.”
“Ugh, you’re right.”
He hums into his coffee, then adds, “We’ll have to dress up but it can be low-key. Or funny, if that’s your thing. Ketchup and mustard or some other couples costume.”
“Despite my job, I’m notthatinto condiments.”
He chuckles, “Thank God. It’s the New York Clark Industries office. We should probably do something together but we can just, I don’t know, wear suits and black sunglasses and be secret agents. Done.”
I frown, “You want me to wear a suit? Like Secret Service? So, like a man’s suit.”
“No, mother of f—Janelle.” He finally looks at me. “I want you to wear whatever you want. I want to do whatever you want. If you’ll just bloody tell me what that is!”
Whoa.
This is different.
He’s vibrating, his muscles pulled tight under his snug teeshirt. His jaw is clenched, knuckles white around his coffee cup.
I’m used to him being friendly, thoughtful, charming, funny, sure.
But he’s angry.
At me.
And it. Is. So. Hot.
Again I fight the urge to attack him. I bet he’d catch me if I just leapt up onto his body and gripped like a baby monkey. A shiver runs down my entire body, head to toe, taking apointeddetour at my chest. The thin fabric of my tank hides nothing.
Ben’s eyes dip down and stay there for a beat then he looks up at the ceiling. I make a noise between a laugh and a moan.
“Bloody hell. I quit. I can’t not look! I can’t not comment, look at them! They’re perfect! How’m I supposed to just ignore them? I’ve not yet started my kickboxing and the treadmill isn’t cutting it, I—” He’s almost yelling.
“Sorry!” I yell back and finally cross my arms to cover myself up. “I’ll get a sweatshirt!” I walk quickly out of the kitchen. “I’ll go get a sweatshirt.” I add, softer.
I just barely hear him mutter, “Do they have floor-length sweatshirts? Kill me already. This is torture.”
I decide to just change into my clothes for the day. But once again, as I wash my face at the deep sink and change in my new closet, I’m smiling ear to ear.
21
JANIE
“Here’s how we’re going to do this, Boss.” I call from behind my door.
“Hm?”
