Shit.
“I mean, you got a problem with sass?”I double down like an idiot.
Of course I do.Like a damn fool standing in quicksand, throwing myself an anvil.
She crosses her arms, hip cocked.“Are you serious, Fido?”
Fido.
The woman called me Fido.
That’s twice now.
“What year is it in Arrhythmia, anyway?”she goes on, and her voice is syrupy-smooth and sharp as broken glass.“Because you people?You’re a little hokey.”
“Hokey?”I echo, like I’ve never heard the word in my life, like she just told me I was made of papier-mâché and raffle tickets.
She turns toward the window, and my brain short-circuits.
There are curves—and then there’s this woman.
A full damn hourglass with hips that could break a grown man and legs that go on forever before curving into an ass so round and perfect my inner Wolf practically rolls over and begs.
I shouldn’t be looking.
I should definitely not be picturing what she’d look like bent over my desk again, only this time without the clothes.
But gods help me, I am looking.
And that smile?The one she flashes when she glances over her shoulder?
Yeah.That’s the kind of smile they write obituaries about.
I’m halfway to stroking out when she bends to pick up a piece of paper off the floor, giving me the exact view I was trying so hard to avoid.
The view.
The bend.
The soft little wiggle.
My brain goes static.My Wolf howls.My pants get tighter than they should be in a professional situation.
That is 100% how I die.Right there.
Death by sweet, peach-shaped perfection.
She straightens with a soft little hum and strolls to the window, every step a silent dare.
“So,” I say, desperate to get my blood back above my waistline, “where’s that you’re from?The Bronx?”
“Nah,” she says with a shrug.“Jersey City.”
Of course she is.
That attitude?That accent?That don’t-take-shit energy that turns me inside out?She is pure Jersey Girl.
Probably came out of the womb cursing like a truck driver and side-eyeing the doctor.
