He hums, slow, amused. “And what’s the big work crisis…” he glances at the clock, “at three-twenty-nine in the morning?”
“I need to double-check—” I wave vaguely, “—logistics.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes drag over my poker face. “You’re replaying the wall… the second time.”
I stare him down over my fry.
“No. Logistics, Hartwell.”
His laugh is low and warm, a delicious rumble that does something unforgivable to my heart. He reaches across the table, his thumb brushing a stray grain of salt from my bottom lip. The room gets ten degrees hotter.
“Sure you are, Stopwatch.”
I sip my drink so my mouth won’t spiral.
The distraction doesn’t stick. I’m looking at him again. In that stupid robe. He’s too relaxed and entirely too present in a moment that should’ve burned itself out by now.
This is unsustainable.
My brain agrees that now is the perfect time to ruin everything.
“Why do you want the promotion?”
I immediately wave a hand between us, wishing I could physically shove the question back down my throat.
“Nope. Delete that. We are currently in uh, a work-free zone, which is—strictly—robes, cheeseburgers, and—oh God—an intense amount of ‘horizontal collaboration.’ Not that I’m keeping score—because I’m not. Or—judging! Or—wait—why did I say ‘collaboration?!’ That sounds straight out of a PowerPoint slide! I meant—uh—recreation! Yes! ‘Horizontal recreation.’ People say that, right? It’s a thing. My filter is clearly in the trash with all of the condom wrappers—which I’m not counting! I should stop now.”
His mouth twitches. “Ivy.”
“I’m serious,” I say, covering my face. “It was an accidental slip. Drop it.”
“No can do. You can’t take back a question like that.”
“I absolutely can. It’s one of my many skills.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifts. “Right next to overanalyzing and pretending you aren’t picturing me naked right now?”
“That’s not—”
“Glenmire,” he says.
I blink. “Gesundheit?”
“It’s a town in California.” He says. “My hometown. High desert, one-stoplight kind of place. The whole economy ran on a single extension cord manufacturing plant, which sounds insane when you say it out loud. But that’s what it was, one plant, oneheartbeat, and nobody ever stopped to think what would happen if it ever went under.”
He shrugs.
“Plant shut down. Jobs vanished. Traffic dried up. Businesses started going under, including my family’s diner.”
Something in my chest does a slow, sideways shift.
“I was home from college for the summer. Every night I saw my stressed-out parents at the kitchen table, doing math to keep the place going.”
He picks up a fry, looks at it, sets it down.
“I had no budget. No plan. No fancy strategy. What I had was a hunch and the knowledge that behind the factory, there stood an absurd, oversized ball of extension cords.”
“Sorry, what now?”
