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That’s about the time Ro delivered my morning cappuccino.

I sat up, straightening the covers just so, hiding the evidence, kind of.

She stared at me, then the bed, then me, then handed me the coffee, no expression on her face. “Should I be worried or offended about whatever you’re doing here?”

“You should be both. Also, you should have shown up five minutes earlier.”

“Change the sheets, cupcake,” she told me as she walked to the door.

“You’re sadistic,” I called back.

“Perish the thought.”

I tried to hide from our visitors in Ro’s office again, but that didn’t last two hours before my dad found me.

I was sharing Ro’s desk with her rather than finding a reasonable solution just because it irked her and got her to pay more attention to me in general.

I’d pulled a chair up across from her, plopped my laptop down and did nothing but play footsies with her for at least a half an hour.

She’d resorted to kicking me rather viciously when I said, “Stop that or I’m going down there to nibble on your toes.”

“Procrastinating podophile,” she muttered, eyes on her computer screen.

I was deeply offended until I realized what she’d actually said. “How do you even know what that is, and what it’s called? And no, I don’t actually have a foot fetish, though I could make an exception for your tiny little bitty, high-arched, princess feet.”

“This is you trying to prove that you don’t have a foot fetish?” That sassy raised brow. “Waxing poetic about my arches?”

I held her eyes. “To be perfectly honest, at this point what I think I have is a Devereux Laurent fetish.”

She blushed and looked away.

My erection tried its best to go for the gold and raise her desk off the floor. It certainly put in an honorable mention. “Say something mean to me,” I told her gruffly. “Tell me you don’t want me again.”

“It’s simple: You’ve built me up into a challenge in your mind because I said no and you’re not used to hearing the word. That’s all this perverse infatuation you’ve cultivated for me is.”

I respected the effort of her little speech, but she was so far off that it did nothing to help me. “I don’t need a challenge. I’ve never been that guy. I’m enough of a challenge to myself that I’ve never had to seek outside help to meet that particular need. Try again.”

“You’re not attractive. No one thinks you’re pretty.”

I laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. Try again.”

“You’re tacky and I hate you.” Perfect deadpan delivery.

“Nope. That did the opposite of what I needed. Try another.”

“We both know it’s not going to work. I think your love language is insults.”

“Say something nice then.”

“I actually think you’re a good person.”

I almost came on the spot. There went that theory.

I was actually kind of working—only occasionally distracting myself by touching the tip of my finger to her nose when she wasn’t looking then snatching my hand back before she could smack it—when my dad interrupted us.

“I need a word, son,” he said from the doorway behind me.

He already sounded out of sorts, and I hadn’t even insulted him once today. Yet.