I tossed the phone on the seat beside me and laid my head back. It was too much to expect the first date to work out, but some part of me hoped it would. My stomach tensed as I put my car in reverse and headed home.
I got this.
Right?
Chapter 8
“Miller,” she cried,popping up from her desk as she wrapped her arms around me. Her rolling chair pushed back with enough force to hit the wall in her tiny, shared office, and I couldn’t help the smile that covered my features.
I’d never tire of seeing her smile.
“Oof.” The wind was knocked out of me with the force of her hug, but I took the hit like a man and definitely didn’t take two steps backward, almost falling on my ass. Her shoulders shook with laughter, but she had the grace to save my dignity andnotmention that a one-hundred-and-twenty-something-pound girl almost knocked me down.
She wore a gray pencil skirt that ended right above her knees with tiny black heels and a soft pink cardigan. Her hair was done in one long braid that fell over her left shoulder, and I had to remind myself where we were before I fisted those locks to drag her to my lips.
I had learned early on with Emma that being her friend required you to be comfortable with physical affection. She had ahit-you-in-the-facekind of affection, dragging you into her little bubble and wrapping her arms around you tighter than a boa constrictor. If you weren’t careful, she could knock you down with the force of her hugs.
And I loved every second of it.
There was no reason for me to be here today other than wanting to see her and wanting to feel that squishy, off-kilter way when she turned her attention toward me. She was mydrug—and my body craved another hit of her sweet peach scent. She had this way about her—nothing I could ever pinpoint, but something important enough to know I’d never be the same if she left.
Did I care stopping here would mean I’d have a late night at the office?Nope.
Was I bothered that I’d miss dinner and have to eat whatever leftover was in the fridge?Not a bit.
I buried my face in her neck, nuzzling the skin along her pulse point until she giggled and pushed me away.
“What are you doing here? I’m sorry I flaked on our plans, but this filing won’t finish itself. I feel like Mrs. Dawlish has a personal vendetta against me.”
This crease appeared between her eyes as she pushed away, shaking her head.
“Nah. I’m sure she’s just one of those types who gets off on bossing people around. That’s why I thought I’d come by with offers of carbohydrates and sugar,” I said, holding up the bag of take-out food she neglected to notice in my hand.
“Oh, heck yes. You brought me dinner? Enough for two, right?”
“Nah. Just enough for me. Thought I’d rub it in your face that I was done working before five o’clock while you were stuck in this empty office doing mundane filing or some other shit that is well below your pay grade.”
She hit me, not too gently, in the stomach.
“Ugh,” I said in a manly, growly tone—and not like all the air whooshed out of my lungs in some high-pitched squeal. “I’ll take everything you give me, Em. Even a jab to the sternum.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Absolutely, but take it easy or I’ll eat all the Gulab Jamun myself.”
She rubbed the spot apologetically, then, like she couldn’t help herself, her hand glided down my side and she pinched the fluff around my middle. I made another very masculine sound, grinning as she laughed. Her warm, soft hands felt ridiculously good, even if they were pinching me, and I had to hold back a groan.
“You brought me Gulab Jamun?” she asked, moving to grab the bag dangling from my fingers.
“And Tandoori Chicken, but only if you’re nice to me.” I huffed, putting one arm across my chest and rubbing my stomach like I was angry at her for daring to assault my delicatesensibilities. She rolled her eyes and took the bag from my hand, motioning to the small table in the corner of her office and closing her door so it was left open just a crack.
The area was spartan, with two large oak desks pushed against opposite walls and a matching round table with three chairs between them. Papers cluttered the desk Em rose from when I entered her space, and no fewer than four pencils with bright plastic flowers taped to the top, lay scattered in various places. It screamed “her”—from the framed pictures of her friends adorning the desk to her various degrees and awards hanging on the wall.
“I had to bribe Mrs. Bella at the front desk—who was on her way home, by the way—with those gourmet cookies from the bakery by the office to get her to let me back here after hours, and you’re using me like your very own punching bag.”
“Shut up. You love it,” she said, rolling her eyes and rubbing her hands together. She licked her lips and removed containers from the bag to arrange them family-style on the table. Em was a sharer—in every sense of the word. From sharing her affection to sharing her food. She saw any meal as an open invitation to try a bite of every plate, always offering her own in trade.
I gave up fighting it years ago, knowing the smile covering her features was worth any lingering hunger pains I suffered at the hands of her sharing. Before sitting down, her hand darted out, gripping my shoulder and pulling me close. I returned her embrace, basking in her warmth.
