“What’s up?” Colt asks from his desk. “Any word from the team?”
“Yeah,” he says, guiding me just far enough out of the way to slide past me and enter the office. Turning to me, he says, “Sorry darlin’, gotta steal your guy for a while. Whatever he’s having, double it for me, alright?”
“Oh,” I stammer, a warm blush creeping over my cheeks. “Yeah, of course, Mr. Davis.”
He casually plops down into the chair opposite Colt with a laugh, and I’m not sure what kind of conversation silently passes between them, but Colt rolls his eyes in response to it.
I take my cue to leave the room and go pick up their coffee orders.
I bring them back as quickly as I can and slip quietly into the office to set their cups down in front of them. I try not to peek at the papers scattered over the desk, but I can’t help it – I’m nosy and interested in the business.
It looks like there’s a new development being talked about, but I can’t make out exactly what it is or will be. They’re looking at a crapload of cash, though.
Mr. Davis starts coughing as soon as he takes a drink from his cup and he sets it down on the desk, covering his mouth and shooting Colt a horrified look.
“How do youdrinkthat shit, man?” He asks.
“I’m so sorry, I can get you something else,” I offer.
“He’s fine, Rowan,” Colt says. “He just has the tastebuds of an infant.”
I chortle, my hand flying to my mouth. “No, your coffee is terrible,” I tell him. “I tried a sip once and I thought my heart was gonna explode. And it tasted like acid.”
“Oh, I like her,” Mr. Davis laughs. He turns to me, saying, “Darlin’, you can just call me Davis. Ditch the ‘mister.’”
He reaches his hand out for me, and I take it, offering a firm shake.
“Nope,” Colt says, shaking his head. “You two are not allowed to be friends.”
I giggle and lean forward to meet his mouth with mine before leaving them to their meeting. It feels incredible – so brazen and freeing – to kiss him in front of someone else. It’s an intoxicating feeling I could easily get used to, and I wonder if it will always feel this way. I really hope it does.
The rest of the day passes with ease and I don’t hear the rumor mill starting to whirl, which is honestly a little surprising. I’ve heard rumors start between two people at nine in the morning and be the talk of the office by eleven, on more than one occasion.
A lot of the people who work here are young and bored and desperate to connect with each other on a social level to fill their extrovert meters while they’re on the clock, and gossip is a great way to do that. I’ve never participated – mostly because it’s hurtful, partly because I find it to be very boring.
It’s just after seven when Colt and I pack up our things and get ready to head out. As he stuffs whatever paperwork he needs to take home into his briefcase, he stops and lifts his head to look at me. “Are you hungry?” He asks.
I can’t help but laugh. “What?”
“I just had a realization,” he muses. “We’ve done a lot of things together, but I’ve never taken you on a proper date. We should remedy that. Would you like to go on a date with me, Rowan?”
“I would love to go on a date with you,” I smile.
Warmth spreads through my chest and my stomach suddenly fills with thousands of very lively butterflies, so active I can almost feel their wings beating hard against my skin.
I’ve always been so afraid of spontaneity, too worried about how my body would react and needing time to plan for anything that could go wrong, from passing out to a sudden onslaught of pain. Colt makes it feel safe. He’s shown me that, yes, things can go wrong, but it doesn’t have to be a disaster, and it can be fixed. He’s given me the freedom to sayyes.
We decide on a semi-casual restaurant to visit for a late dinner, and because he’s Colt Fowler, we get seated immediately, despite the dinner rush.
With our entrées sitting in front of us, I let my newfound appreciation of spontaneity take control, reaching under the table to stroke my hand along Colt’s thigh. His body tenses, but he doesn’t move my hand.
Instead, he brings his hand over my own thigh, tracing his fingers up from my knee with a featherlight touch that tickles and sends heat screaming through my body.
I clench my thighs together in response, and over the top of the wine glass pulled to his lips he whispers, “Uh-uh,” using just enough pressure to force them apart again.
His hand creeps further up my leg until it finds itself sliding beneath my skirt. His fingers brush the lightest touches over my panties and I shudder in my seat, trying to maintain composure.
I look around to make sure that no one is staring at us as he pulls my panties to the side and slides a finger over me, letting out a self-satisfied chuckle when he finds me already soaking wet and aching for him.
