I look up, and there he is.
Greg.
Today he’s in a cream button-down that fits too well, sleeves pushed up to reveal those irresistible muscular forearms with a faint trace of dark hair catching the light. His work badge hangs lopsided, and his grin—gods help me—is too open, too kind.
“I’m just… giving it space,” I say.
He laughs, that same golden sound, and crouches beside the printer. “She’s a delicate machine. Needs a gentle touch.”
“Do you talk to all the printers like that?”
“Only the ones that pout.” He glances up at me, eyes glinting. “Yours seems especially moody.”
“I wonder why,” I mutter, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He fixes the problem in seconds, because of course he does, and when he stands, there’s something in the way he looks at me—steady, searching.
“By the way,” he says, setting a handful of candies next to my keyboard. “Your ‘help ticket’ came with a reward. Customer satisfaction bonus.”
I stare at the candy and imagine them squirting in my mouth. The way I squirted all over my chest last night under his touch.
Every atom in my body tenses. “Greg, you don’t have to?—”
“I know.” He shrugs, easy, but there’s warmth in his voice. “You deserve it.”
He leaves before I can think of a reply.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of flustered distraction. Every time I reach for my mouse, my eyes drift back to the Splatters. Every time someone walks by, I half expect it to be him again.
At some point, Amara appears at my desk with her lunch. She eyes the candy then me.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “Someone definitely has an admirer.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, eh? Greg doesn’t leave anyone else mounds of candy. I’m lucky if I get one. And then usually it’s the pink ones. Which you’d think are strawberry flavored but are actually watermelon.” She shudders dramatically, plopping into the chair beside my desk. “Artificial watermelon should be illegal. I’m drafting a grievance as we speak.”
I stifle a snort. “It’s not like that. He’s just… friendly.”
“Friendly?” she repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Friendly is holding the elevator. This”—she gestures to the enormous pile of Splatters on my desk like it’s proof of something—“is courting behavior.”
“It’s not courting behavior,” I say, though the words feel weak even to my own ears.
Amara grins, sharklike. “Oh, so you’ve noticed?”
“I notice everything,” I mutter, trying—and failing—not to smile. “It’s my job.”
“Right. Observant. Professional. Definitely not blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Sure you’re not,” she says, tearing into her sandwich, wings twitching just enough to ruffle the papers on my desk. “Anyway, if you do decide to thank him properly, maybe don’t do it in the break room. BR frowns on PDA, even if it’s with an IT guy who could probably hack the entire system blindfolded—and probably has.”
I groan. “You’re insufferable.”
She grins, feathers fluffing smugly. “Please. I live for this kind of chaos.”
I groan and drop my forehead onto my keyboard. “Amara, I’m begging you—stop helping.”
