He chokes on his food, excusing himself and disappearing through a door next to the sofa that I hadn’t seen. When he returns a few minutes later, his eyes have a twinkle to them.
“Are you all right?” I ask, trying not to smile at the look on his face.
He shakes his head, this time refusing to look at me. “I’m fine.” He returns to his seat and takes a long drink of water. After the cap is slowly screwed back on, his eyes find mine. “I’ll admit something to you.”
“Shoot.”
“You confuse the hell out of me.”
A giggle topples from my lips. “Really? In what way?”
His eyes narrow as he chooses his words. “In every way. On one hand, you’re incredibly efficient, finding my mistakes yesterday in the file. You thought ahead to order lunch today. You’ve really impressed Gina, and Lincoln loved you—but don’t take that to mean anything. You’re a beautiful woman. That’s kind of a shoo-in with my little brother.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, trying to deflect from the fact that I’m just replaying “beautiful woman” over and over again.
He laughs again, the sound a melody better than I expected. It’s warm and soothing, but has a gruffness to it that reminds me of a five o’clock shadow—just scratchy enough to lend a little rogue that ups the sex appeal by a hundredfold. “It was a compliment,” he says, leaning forward. “On the other hand, I have no idea how you maintain your efficiency. You struggle to get here on time every day. Your desk is a mess. I have no idea how you keep track of anything.”
“Steel trap,” I say, patting my temple. “And I take slight offense to you calling me a mess.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, you did,” I laugh.
“I said your desk is a mess.”
“My desk is a creative climate,” I suggest. “It’s been proven that the smartest people in the world work in an atmosphere other people would call disorderly.”
“Or a mess,” he winks.
“I refuse to accept that term,” I shrug playfully.
“Can you accept to straighten it up? It’s driving me crazy. I want to stop there every night on my way home and just reorganize it for you.”
“Don’t you dare!” I giggle.
He reclines back, the sun illuminating his face. The lines around his eyes are smooth, his jaw slack and unclenched for maybe the first time since I started. He almost seems like a different person altogether.
“It is my office,” he suggests. “I would venture to say there’s not a lot you could do about it.”
“What if I got up and went to your desk and moved things around? How would you feel?”
His eyes hood, his bottom lip working back and forth in between his teeth. I sit across from him, my hands in my lap, held hostage by his gaze.
His lip pops free and I exhale sharply. “I’d feel a lot of ways,” he whispers. “None of which I really want to feel.”
“Why not?” I ask softly.
We both know we aren’t just talking about a moved stapler or a mishmash of files. As that really sets in, the air around us gets heavier. Hotter. Hazardous.
“Those things always lead to dangerous situations,” he says, his eyes trained on me.
I shift in my seat, the throb between my legs growing stronger by the second. “People do it every day and survive.”
“They may survive, but don’t things get messy?”
“Only if they do it right.”
His chair flies backwards and he’s to his feet and next to me before I know what’s happening. He doesn’t ask that I stand, but he doesn’t have to. It’s implied and my body reacts accordingly to his silent command.