His scent hits me a second before he does.
Then he appears—dark sweater, hair in that “I ran my hand through it five times to look casual” state, and a smile that saysI’m not here to cause trouble, but I will anyway.
Great. Fantastic. Perfect.
The last time he walked into this office he—
No.
Stop.
Mentally filethatunder “forbidden memories.”
New mantra: Don’t look at him. Don’t think about it. Don’t give in.
“Becker,” I say in the most neutral, professional, unshakable tone I can manage. “Welcome back.”
He straightens and looks at me like I’m glowing.
Why? Why does he always look at me like that?
Someone should revoke his right to use that expression. It’s a weapon.
“Angel,” he says, way too pleased, as if we’re best friends. He takes the seat across from me. “Happy to see me?”
Smirk. Of course.
I ignore the bait and sit behind my desk.
If I look at him as little as humanly possible, I won’t be tempted.
If I don’t breathe too deeply, I won’t smell him.
If I don’t think about his tongue—
Okay. Enough.
“Congrats on the three wins,” I say, opening my tablet just to have something—anything—to focus on that isn’t him.
He lights up.
It’s… cute, when he lights up.
Damn it.
“You watched?” he asks, like a kid on Christmas morning.
I try to stay indifferent.
“Of course I watched. My father is the coach, remember?”
He doesn’t get discouraged. Obviously. The man doesn’t even understand the concept ofgiving up.
“I saw you in the stadium.”
My heart skips.
No. He didn’t notice me. Impossible. Too many people.
