“Like a man in the desert, staring at a Creamsicle.”
“I was not.”
I totally was.
Zac points at my face. “Admit it. You’re into her.”
God, would I love to be.
Stop it.
I drop into the chair and start unlacing my boots. “I am not into her. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even get her name.”
Zac drags a chair up beside me, flips it around, and straddles it, and just stares.
Forearms hooked over the backrest. Head tilted. Eyes narrowed.
I feel like a rare primate on exhibit.
“What?” I scowl.
“Just…” His lips twitch. “Fascinated.”
“By what?”
He hums, rubbing his chin like a man solving a puzzle. “You’re the chief of security for a global reconnaissance empire. Satellites. Databases. Black ops toys that would make the CIA cry.”
“And?”
“And yet,” he smirks, “you don’t know her name.”
My jaw tightens. “Your point?”
He shrugs. “At the snap of your fingers, you could have her high school GPA, blood type, bra size, and preferred e-reader font. Her name isn’t exactly out of reach.”
He’s not wrong.
What makes it worse is that my traitorous brain immediately supplies one inconvenient fact.
I already know her bra size.
Two glorious D-cups, pressed flush against my chest earlier today.
And now that’s all I can think about.
Zac and Brian watch me with a suffocating amount of annoying silence. God, I hate when they go all quiet-psychoanalyst on me.
I give up. Crossing the room, I ditch my wallet on a table, take a seat, and yank off a boot. Then the other. Each one hits the floor with a dull, irritated thud. “Maybe I’m not interested.”
Brian shakes his head. “So, we’ve reached the lie-until-you-die portion of the conversation.”
I say nothing.
“I know her name,” Brian adds. “I’m surprised you don’t already know it.”
“Why would I know it?” I stare as he removes a folded piece of paper and hands it over.
So tempting.
