So many things flashed in his eyes. She could have sworn some of them were hot, wet, and a little unhinged, but then he shifted, just slightly, and she thought she might have been imagining it all over again.
“Did you have a chance to test the plants?” he asked, and though she heard the professionalism in his tone, it barely masked some other weight beneath.
“Of course. I found the results interesting, if not exactly clarifying.”
“Have dinner with me.”
She stopped. She’d not seen that one coming, and neither had he, judging by the look of complete astonishment on his face. “To talk about the data,” he said quickly, swallowing, as though he hadn’t meant to saythatexactly. “I assume there’s quite a lot to talk about, and—” He swallowed again. “—it’s almost closing time, and you might have clients and.... So. We can have something to eat and go through those.”
She nodded. That was it. All she could manage.
“Alright, then.” He nodded back. “We can, um, meet up at the pub? Seven? Seven-thirty,” he corrected, “I have some straightening up to do—dumb pack issue.”
“Okay.”
He nodded again.
She nodded back, matching his, like some ridiculous silent choreography.
He opened his mouth to say something else, paused, closed it, and left.
She watched his big frame stride to his truck, swing in, and drive off, feeling suddenly very small in the space he had just occupied. The tension and relief twisted into something else entirely.
Well, then.
She was about to have dinner with Rex. A very professional dinner. To talk about something important to both of them.
Not a date.
She chuckled at herself. Why would she even think it could be a date? Nothing in him screamed date-energy.
Liar.
“Shut up,” she muttered to herself.
But for the rest of the afternoon, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d wear.
SHE WORE JEANS. THEYwere going to the town’s pub—informal. And if she picked the pair with the flattery rhinestones running on the side of her legs and a white top that showed off her boobs and a tan line, so what? It was Wednesday night, people totally dressed up a little on a Wednesday night. She let her hair down, mostly because she didn’t have it in her to fight with it, and put on just a little makeup. A little blush here, some mascara there. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to look like she hadn’t just rolled out of the shop covered in dried leaves and root dust. Boots, but she always needed a few inches anyway.
‘Cause not a date, but a very serious work meeting.
Very serious.
Extremely serious.
She was at the pub at exactly 7:29.
Not many cars were in the parking lot. Good. Quiet made for easier talking, and that’s what they were going to do. Talk. Plan. Be rational adults who were absolutely not aware of the other’s chest hair, mouth, or hands. She waited by the entrance, arms folded, then unfolded, then folded again because she didn’t know what to do with them.
And sighed when she saw his monstrous truck pull in and park. Ten minutes late.
She checked her phone even though she had already checked it twice. Yep, ten minutes. That was irksome. While not straight out bad, it was disrespectful-adjacent. She could be annoyed about that.
He marched toward her, and for a second, his tardiness was not forgiven, but forgotten. He wore jeans, too, dark and worn in all the right places, and a white t-shirt that stretched just enough across his chest and shoulders to make her salivate a little. His hair was slightly wind-tousled, like he’d run a hand through it on the drive. His jaw was shadowed—not quite stubble, not quite clean. His mouth—Enough. And hey, they matched. Cute.
Ridiculous thought. She shoved it away.
“I’m so sorry, I’m late again,” he said with a self-conscious smile.
