I purse my lips so I don’t smile. I can’t stand here all day looking up at his ridiculous eyes and unfair cheekbones without crossing a line I’m not ready to cross (*cough* kissing *cough*), so I put my hands on his arms—his very muscular, very attractive arms—and spin around him. Then I drop to my chair and pull out my laptop.
“Close the door, will you?”
“You got it, Quinn,” he says, and a moment later the door clicks shut, sealing us into the quiet hum of my office.
Something warm and restless stirs in my chest.
“Are you ready to work?” I ask, trying to maintain some decorum. “Or did you plan to just stand there looking distracting all day?”
“So you find me distracting?” he says, finally sitting across from me. He leans over my desk, almost—but not quite—in my space. His jaw is clean-shaven, his mouth relaxed but intent, the kind of face that looks easygoing right up until you realize he’s paying strict attention.
His eyes are magnetic and inescapable. “Mascotswould find you distracting. You’re wearing a neon-yellow hoodie with a flaming mullet across the back.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You noticed.”
That brow! “They noticed it from space. Pal,” I add.
“Oh did they, buddy?”
“Sure did.” I roll my lips together, purposefully not looking at his. “Chum.”
He’s leaning so close now, all I would have to do is sit forward, and I could be kissing him. “I think you’re making that up,” he says quietly. “Friend-o.”
Then he slides the coffee across the desk and our fingers brush, just like they do every morning.
But this time, my index finger goes rogue. It lifts—just barely—and traces the warm, rough ridge of his knuckle before I can stop myself. The contact snaps through me like static, and his breath stutters. His pupils go huge, and for one suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Neither of us pulls back.
The air between us is electric, like the sky over the stadium right before lightning strikes.
“So,” Lucas says, his voice lower now, his eyes mapping my face. This close, his breath smells like that vanilla protein cozy he’s always getting, and it’s never smelled more delicious. “Is this the new line?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” I’m breathless looking at him, falling into the light blue depths of his eyes. “Wait, yes I do. The new line is we stick to answers that redirect without denying, keep it boring enough that no one wants a follow-up, and never—ever—give them something they can clip out of context.”
He sniffs a laugh. “Got it.”
“Good.” I take a sip, letting the warmth anchor me back into my body. “Then let’s get to work.”
“Whatever you say.”
I pull out my phone, switch to the voice memos app, and press record.
I feel almost giddy, but I mask it with the acumen of a seasoned pro. “Mr. Fischer, great outing today. But rumors are swirling that you’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain front-office staffer. Is there a distraction in the clubhouse we should know about?”
Lucas gives a lazy, confident grin that I’ll drill him about later. “I think the only distraction is how hard the sun was hitting the batters’ eyes in the seventh. My focus is on throwing the best I can and helping my team win. Anything else is noise.”
“Does this mean you’re in the market for a girlfriend then?”
“My only focus is on baseball.”
“What if that turns off your legion of female fans on social media?”
“I’d wonder if you’re one of them.”
I laugh. “Well played, Lukie.”
“Thanks, Quinn.”
