“Because he’s frigging gorgeous.”
She snickers again. “He’s hot. Yeah.”
“I can tell he likes you.”
She smirks. “He likes my mouth.”
When her phone dings, she pulls it out of her pocket and reads. I watch her face turn from pink to red in seconds.
“What?”
“This elevator has audio.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t help myself; I have to ask. “What’d he say?”
“He said he likes—” She clears her throat. “He likes other things about me besides my mouth.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
We don’t say anything else after that.
When we reach our floor, I step off first and wait for Meghan. I’m not done asking her about her… friend. “Is Lucky his real name?”
She shrugs. “No. It’s Liam.” She pauses. “Liam Shanahan.”
“He’s Irish?” I practically squeak the words out. Hell, I’m a quarter Irish and let me tell you, there are no men who look like Liam in my family tree. We’re all short and pasty while he’s tall, dark, and so damn handsome.
“So, they call him Lucky because he’s Irish?”
She shrugs. “I think they gave him that nickname when he was in the military. He was a fighter pilot or something.”
Wow. I think about that.Lucky.“It’s a good name to get when you’re in a combat zone.”
Blinking, she looks up at me. “Yeah. You’re right.”
And with that, I thank Meghan and walk toward the conference room, hoping it’s cleared out by now. I’ve got a lot to do, including interviewing seven more people. Two of whom are the director of social media and the art director.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben
The stairs are goingto be my undoing. I’m out of breath and sweating profusely. “Genius idea, Ben.” I really need to add cardio to my workout.Jesus.
Sadly, somewhere around floor eleven, I abandon the bag that held my remaining lunch. Something had to be tossed overboard, and lunch was the only thing I had on me. It’s okay, I can eat the lunch I brought from home. Nothing wrong with peanut butter and jelly.
As I walk up the remaining eleven flights, I can’t believe how out of shape I am. Hell, I’m so winded I’m starting to hallucinate.
Case in point, on seventeen, I could swear I hear voices— women’s voices—coming down from above. Not only that, I’d bet my life that one of them washer. Alison. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but… hell, I probably hallucinated the whole thing due to fatigue playing havoc with my head.
“Shit,” I mumble as I trip up one step, catching myself with my hand. It’s ridiculous because I’m in good shape. I mean I lift weights, so this is pretty pathetic.
When I see the painted number 22 above the door, I sit down, relieved I finally made it. I’ve got to gather myself a bit before I step onto the floor; I can’t have my coworkers seeing me in this state. I tilt my head down and raise my arm to get a whiff of my underarm. “Fuck.” I smell. “I need a shower.” Even a change of clothes would be good, but all I’ve got in my office is a pair of sweatpants and an old tee. Definitely not business attire. I’d go ahead and change if I thought shit wouldn’t hit the fan, but since I feel like I’m being watched, it’s better to stink than look unprofessional.
