Now she’s pinching the bridge of her nose, glasses hoisted up.
“I’m sorry that I wrote things down because I wanted to be sure we were on the same page about whatever the fuck it is we’re even doing,” she says, voice muffled by her hand but sarcastic. “Is there any chance we can get through this and move on?”
Something about the way she says it hits me right below the sternum, in that soft, susceptible spot: Kat with her shields briefly down, human for once instead of the stony, spiky creature who saw me at my worst and drove me down instead of having some mercy. Suddenly there’s a bend, some give, an acknowledgement of being made of flesh and blood, same as everyone.
“We can move on to the second article,” I concede, and then the glasses are back. “Entitled ‘Acceptable actions when circumstances require’?”
“Thank you,” she says, and reads. “Touching on the leg. Intense cuddles. Full-trunk embraces. Romantic-style face touching. Any sort of stroking. Mouth kisses. Verbal declarations of attraction. Kisses in moderately risqué locations.”
She finishes, and there’s a moment of silence during which I’m confronted with the fact that I don’t hate hearing her say moderately risque locations.
“When, exactly, do circumstances require?” I finally ask.
I get a look, and hold up my free hand.
“Honest question.”
“When the situation calls for us to… need to demonstrate our attraction,” she says, quickly. I think she’s blushing, the faintest of pinks under light gold skin.
“You mean when he’s around,” I say. “This is a list of things you want me to do in front of Meckler.”
She holds my gaze for a long time: three seconds, then five.
“The things that’ll get him fired up,” I go on.
Kat takes one deep breath, her chest rising, falling under her shirt.
“Yes,” she finally says, voice hushed. “This is what he’s gonna hate.”
“When I hold you close and whisper something dirty in your ear,” I say, rephrasing the words in front of me. I say it to get a reaction from her, and her lips twitch like maybe she’s trying not to smile.
“I think whispering would defeat the purpose,” she says.
“Then I’ll hold you close and holler something dirty.”
“As long as it works.”
I don’t hate the thought quite as much as I might like. I wonder how she’d react, whether she’d blush or recoil. Maybe both. Kat seems complicated.
“Home stretch,” I say, making myself relax back against the desk, banishing all thoughts of whispers. “The never list.”
“No touching in the swimsuit zone,” she says. “No weird PDA. No entering one another’s domiciles. No bed sharing.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m concise,” she says, and that glimmer of amusement is back. “And don’t ask for a definition of weird. If you’re worried it’s weird, it’s probably weird.”
“I promise not to lick your eyeball in public,” I drawl.
It gets a dismayed noise out of her, and I try not to grin at it.
“You did forget one very important thing on this document,” I tell her.
“The part about who gets to sue who for damages?”
“The goal,” I tell her.
She puts the paper on her desk, flips it over, turns back to me. Frowns through her bangs and glasses, dark hair draped over the white shoulders of her shirt. Right now, Kat looks for all the world like the movie version of a stylish lady publishing executive, all glasses and business.