Page 40 of Off the Grid

They’re still enticing as an adult.

I’m perusing the selection, my back to the door, when I hear, “Oops, this isn’t the conference room.”

I turn around and freeze when a pair of gray eyes meet mine. Gray eyes that are part of a very alluring package that I know to be a farce.

“What are you doing here?” we both ask at the same time and then stop as if scripted.

“Oh look, it’s Baggy Bar Girl. What are you doing here?”

Baggy Bar Girl?

“Oh look, it’s I’m the Asshole or do you prefer Dare Dick? And I could ask the same of you. But hell, I’m surprised you’re even acknowledging my presence without needing a dare card in your hand to do so.” My smile is as sarcastic as my tone.

He snorts in response and then looks me up and down with a discernable expression. It only serves to piss me off, to remind me of how mortified he made me feel . . . and to make it seem like I can feel each and every goosebump as it forms before they chase across my entire body.

And there it is. Again.

I grit my teeth and hate myself for having any reaction other than loathing toward the man standing before me.

I left the whole situation that night in a place of power. I refuse to let him bring me back to anything other than that.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” I say.

“Ladies first.”

“Oh, look. He does have manners.” I tsk. “Too bad I know they’re all for show.”

“You’re entitled to your own opinion. Just like I am mine.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just my luck you work here, huh? Let me guess, you’re in customer service. A nice voice behind a faceless phone.”

I take him in. The chinos. The Moretti Motorsports polo shirt. The wide eyes. The parted lips that turn into a slow crawl of a smile when he thinks I’m still checking him out.

I stutter mentally as two things become abundantly clear.

One, there’s only one logical reason that he’s dressed like this. And it’s not because he’s an overzealous fan who’s broken in here for a quick thrill.

Fucking hell.

He’s Spencer Riggs. Our new driver. He has to be.

It’s the only reasonable explanation, seeing as I’ve met every damn person in this building—and he wasn’t one of them. Plus, he’s wearing a driver’s polo shirt.

And two . . . he clearly doesn’t know who I am. That I’m a Moretti.

“You’re staring.” His dimple deepens the smugger his smile becomes. “That must mean I’m right about your job or . . . you’re still interested in me.”

“No. Wait. What?”

He chuckles. “You are the one who kissed me.”

“You are the one who kissed me back,” I counter and then realize my statement proves nothing more than the fact we have chemistry. Chemistry I’d prefer to deny. “And you are the one who was a prick.”

“I already explained it to you. It was a dare. You were there so I acted on it. We shared two intense kisses that we both enjoyed. Case closed.”

“How do you know I enjoyed it?”

His smirk turns lopsided. “I didn’t see you pushing me away when I went in for a second one. Seemed to me by your hands fisting in my shirt you liked it . . . but what do I know?”

He has me there. Has me when I don’t want him to in any capacity, and I’m more than ashamed to admit it. I use my confusion and turn it into anger because it’s so much easier than to acknowledge how this large space suddenly feels so very small with him in it.