Barbie and I immediately make eye contact. Suddenly, the room feels twice as small while the receptionist continues rambling.
“I’ll give you guys a few minutes before I send them in.”
We’re still gawking at each other while she makes her exit. The moment the door shuts, I turn on my feet to face her.
“Who’s gonna take your spot when you leave?” I ask, and disbelief flickers in her eyes, barely matching the confusion settling in my chest.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe Joe?”
“Joe is fucking incompetent,” I say. “Man’s always bragging about shit he didn’t even do during our backlog calls. Taking credit for other people’s work?—”
“He—”
“Not only did you create them, I know you were the one who formatted the error lists. Not Joe. You’re always adamant about using the same, specific font?—”
“Okay, timeout.” She makes a T with both of her hands. “First, we need to get naked?—”
“Excuse me?” I inhale sharply, coming to a standstill when Barbie reaches for the hem of her tank top.
“I mean, feel free to get a massage with your clothes still fully on,” she mumbles, “but the bra I’m wearing is worth a day’s paycheck, and I’m not made of money, Ethan.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t leave the company for an internship,” I say. “Is it even paid?”
“It’s not paid?—”
“Isn’t Malibu expensive? How much is a cup of coffee there, Barbie? What could it cost? Ten dollars?”
“God, I wish the drink I get is ten dollars,” she says with a quiet laugh.
“Another reason you shouldn’t bail on Green Checks just yet.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, shimmying her hips after unbuttoning her denim shorts. “There’s this beautiful invention called the coffeemaker. And instant coffee, which isn’t as beautiful, but it sure is easy to make.”
“You’re actually leaving?” I reiterate, and she lets out a long-suffering groan.
“Yes.” She plants a hand on her waist. “Now, can you please get undressed so I’m not the only one here standing in my underwear?”
My gaze dips to the white bra and lacy, baby-blue panties she’s wearing, and I blink, feeling simultaneously stunned, partially confused, and—Icough. Exhale. Pray to Saint Michael when my remaining brain cell fixates on the little bow of her bra. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll get on it.”
Her mouth parts in shock. “Oh my God, say it again. It’s super-duper rare toeverhear you agree so quickly without putting up a fight?—”
Rolling my eyes, I grab the back of my shirt and haul it over my head. “If you wanted to see me naked, Bee, all you had to do was ask.”
She’s biting her lip while her attention lingers on my chest and—I almost snort—my arms.
“Should I give you a sneak peek of the gun show?” I tease, and she aims a mild stare at me in response.
“After you help me with my bra,” she answers, her tone as dry as the Sahara Desert, and she turns around, her back to me—Christ. She’s wearing a thong.
“Help you with your bra?” Jesus. My voice is pure gravel. Gritty and rough like asphalt.
“Mmhmm.” She arches her body, and I’m looking at her ass again like it’s the answer to my prayers while she peeks over her shoulder. “The clasps aresotricky, Ethan. So why don’t you… give me a hand?”
Her smoldering gaze meets mine. It’s not even a second before she breaks into a peal of laughter. A grin overtakes my lips when she doubles over and slaps her palms over her face.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I protest. “I’m not even laughing.”
