“We’re employed,” I say.
She shifts, finally relaxing a bit. Her bare legs stretch out in front of her and cross at the ankle. The skirt I’ve been trying my hardest not to notice since she nearly walked into me in the hallway rides up, exposing a bit of her thighs.
I keep my eyes on the panel light and not on the length of skin she’s just innocently put in front of me. Begging me to run my palm over, just to feel.
Heat rolls through me immediately. I lock my jaw, make my breath boring. Count the fan ticks. Square my shoulders to the door. I shift a fraction, enough to put one knee up as if I’m only getting comfortable on the floor of a stalled elevator like a rational man, and not one trying to disguise a sudden erection because I’m thinking some very inappropriate thoughts about a woman who technically works for me.
“Paperwork and bed,” she says, unaware, amused. “We really know how to live.”
“So they tell me,” I answer, trying not to linger on the word “bed.”
She tips her head, studying the ceiling. “Maybe I should add ‘spontaneity’ to my to-do list.”
“You can schedule it in,”I say.
She laughs, soft and pleased, and the sound hits exactly where I don’t need it to. I think of cold things. Trenton. ABC forms. The smell of the copy room. It helps. Barely.
“Your turn,” she says.
“All right.” I keep my gaze disciplined above her shoulders, hoping it's safer than the rest of her. I settle on her lips and nearly curse myself.
Her mouth is soft and relaxed, the kind that makes a man forget his good sense. I drag my eyes back to the panel and send up a prayer.
The smell coming off her is making me dizzy. Her hair, her skin, the soft spritz of perfume lingering from this morning.
“Pick one,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “First sip or last bite.”
“First sip,” she says. “Anticipation tastes better.”
Of course it does. “Last bite,” I counter.
“Why?” Her eyebrow lifts.
“I like to finish what I start.”
Something flickers across her face. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then lets her hand fall to her knee, fingertips idly tapping once, twice.
“Your turn,” she says, a little quieter. “Windows open or closed at night?”
“Open,” I say. “I like air.”
“Me too.” She smiles like we’ve shared a secret. “Even when I’m cold.”
“Then you take another blanket,” I say.
Her gaze dips to my mouth and back. “Practical.”
“Always.”
She shifts again, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles, the hem of her skirt inching higher on her thigh.
I keep my hands exactly where they are, palms flat on the carpet, as if I’m bracing the whole car by myself.
“Neat handwriting or fast?” I ask, just to fill the silence.
“Fast,” she says. “Then I rewrite it neatly later.”
“Control,” I say.
