“Gee, thanks, Greer. High praise.”
We throw around a few more ideas, narrowing down some basic directions. Nothing concrete yet—we need to visit the site together first—but at least we're not completely winging it.
When we're done, Delilah closes her notebook and exhales.
She rolls her eyes at me, and I just sit there, grinning.
This is bad. This issobad.
Because I’ve dated. I’ve flirted. I’ve hooked up with enough people to know what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re just having fun.
And this? This is not that.
I don’t just want to kiss her. I mean, I do want to kiss her. To kiss that smart smirk off her mouth. I want to get it out of my system, but I also want to know what she’s thinking every moment of this meeting, and that is a problem.
And that’s...new.
I push those feelings down, they are not going to help me win this project.
“Okay. We meet at the site on Monday, 5pm?”
“Works for me.”
She nods, gathering her things.
I watch as she organizes everything with ridiculous precision, tucking her notebook away, adjusting her laptop, making sure her pen is in exactly the right spot in her bag. She's meticulous. You could say organized to the point of insanity.
“See you Monday, Greer,” I say, grabbing my coffee and standing.
“Try not to be late,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Wouldn't dream of it, Mittens.”
She stiffens mid-step.
Turns, slowly.
“Stop calling me that.”
I grin, taking a slow sip of my coffee.
“No promises. It wasn't one of the rules!”
11
DELILAH
Ihate my bike.
Not because it’s old—though it is old—or because the gears skip every time I shift, or because the chain needs oil, or because the stupid seat never stays at the right height.
No. I hate my bike because it’s not a car.
And I know, I know—biking is great for the environment, UMS students are so eco-conscious,blah blah blah.
Most people I pass on the way to Lacey’s place probably feel smug about pedaling around town. They probably post about their choice to give up their comfortable four wheels for two. Me?
I’m freezing.
