“No.” Violet shakes her head.
“Okay. You can finish them all and—”
“We can’t do this,” she cuts me off. “It’s not right. You’re my boss.”
“I’m your neighbor, too.”
“Well, you don’t have to be. I mean, you don’t have to act like one.” She fidgets with the front of her sweater. “We already have to… endure each other’s company at work. We don’t have to do that when we’re here. We can just pretend we’re strangers. We don’t have to check up on each other. We don’t have to cook for each other or exchange recipes or ask for ingredients or feed each other’s pets or invite each other for drinks or stop by for chats or any of that stuff that neighbors do.”
I stay silent. I’ve only been half listening, the other half of my attention drawn to Violet’s slender fingers. I never noticed she had such graceful hands or that she has a tiny tattoo on her wrist—an inverted capital letter E followed by three dots forming an invisible triangle and then the infinity symbol. A trio of mathematical symbols. Interesting.
I’ve been with women with tattoos, some of whom liked to show theirs off and brag about how profound they were, but this is the first time I’ve seen this kind of tattoo. What’s even more interesting is that I, too, have a mathematical symbol tattooed on my back.
Stella’s right. Violet and I are perfect for each other.
“Say something,” she urges me.
I meet her gaze. “Do you know that you talk too much when you’re anxious?”
Her blue eyes grow wide. I’m guessing she doesn’t.
“I do not,” Violet protests.
“Yes, you do. You remember at Finley’s party when you were talking to Ron Lenning, one of the President’s former financial advisors? You couldn’t stop talking about his economic policies and programs. And when we met the author of your favorite book—What was his name again?”
“Godwyn Klein.”
“You practically quoted a whole paragraph he wrote.”
Violet frowns. “I did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
She sighs. “Fine. I talk a lot when I’m anxious. Happy now?”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry. You still look hot even when you talk a lot.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you making fun of me?”
“And when you’re angry.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You are making fun of me.”
I’m not. I mean it. I don’t think I’ve ever found her not hot, not even when she was talking trash about me at the café or when she gave me the cold shoulder in Zurich or when she was mean to me the day she arrived in Chicago. It doesn’t matter whether she’s oozing with confidence or a little frazzled, busy at a computer or staring into space, in a suit, in a dress or in a T-shirt and shorts. There’s just something about her that I can’t seem to resist.
Even now, it’s taking all of my strength not to pull her into my arms and kiss her, claim her lips and drink her every breath until she’s reeling and stumbling back so I can whisk her off her feet and carry her to the bed.
Fuck.
“What are you looking at?” Violet asks.
“You,” I admit.
She blushes. Ah. She looks hot when she does that, too.
Besides, blushing is a sign that I’m winning her over. Just a little more.
I take a step forward. “You know when I first found you attractive?”
Violet doesn’t answer, so I proceed.
“Management Communication. That first meeting when Dr. Simmons asked us all to give a little speech about something we cared about. You were wearing a white blouse with a lace collar and pleats, puffy sleeves, black pants. You spoke about gender equality, how men still dominate the corporate workplace, how women can do just as well. Your passion was just… searing.”
Her eyes widen slightly. I hold her gaze as I lift my hand to touch her cheek.
“You know what I wanted to do then? This.”
I lean forward and press my lips to Violet’s. No reaction. I kiss her more firmly as I stroke her cheek. Ever so slightly, she kisses me back. A thrill rushes down my spine. The box in my hand drops to the floor.
I cradle her jaws with both hands as I crush her mouth. She clutches the front of my shirt. Over and over, our lips collide, and when she parts hers, I push my tongue in. It brushes against the tip of her tongue and heat sizzles in my veins.
Damn, I want her.
Suddenly, the hands on my chest try to push me back. She tries to pull her face away as well.
Not again.
This time, I ignore her resistance and cup her face firmly as I pin her tongue down. I know she wants this. She wants me, too. I’ve seen it in her eyes. I just have to make her swallow her pride long enough to admit it.
She doesn’t. She just pushes even harder, and when I finally step back, she rewards me with a slap on my cheek and a knee to my groin.