He smiles down at me as he readjusts my granny shower cap. “Worth every penny.”
It’s Friday, and contrary to the two lunch dates a week we agreed on, we have spent three lunch breaks together here this week. I’ve lied to everyone in my office about where I have been.
I’m a bad boss doing bad things with a bad man.
We can’t get enough of each other.
“I’ve got to go, baby,” I whisper.
“Hmm.” He holds me tightly in his arms. “Don’t leave me,” he teases.
I smile as I kiss him. “I have to.” I drag myself from his arms and dry myself as he stays in the shower. “Are you not going back to work?” I ask as I dress.
He begins to wash his hair. “No. How did you know?”
“You have an overnight bag with you today.”
“Oh, I’m going to the gym.”
“Okay.” I frown as I remember something. “Did you get your car back?”
“Hopefully I can pick it up this afternoon. If not, I have another lined up for the weekend.”
“Okay.”
“Can we do Monday lunch?” he asks as he rinses the shampoo from his hair. “Wednesday is too far away,” he adds.
I stare at him for a moment, and he’s right: Wednesday is too far away. “Yes, perhaps. I’ll call you.”
What’s happening here?
I dismiss my questions and lean in and kiss him. “Goodbye.”
“Can you pass me my conditioner out of my bag before you go, please?” he asks.
I go out and retrieve his conditioner from his bag and notice his phone is lighting up. I hand the conditioner over. “Your phone has been ringing.” I put it on the bathroom counter.
“Bye, Tris.”
“Bye, babe.” He gives me a sexy wink, and I smirk as my eyes drop down his naked body.
Hmm, I’ve died and gone to lunch-break heaven.
Tristan
I listen to the door bang, and I smile as a warmth floods through me.
Claire Anderson makes me happy.
Stupidly fucking happy.
To the point where I’m nearly driving myself insane with my goofy grin.
I put the conditioner in my hair and screw up my face. Oh God. That shit stinks. I don’t remember it smelling like that before. I lean out of the shower and throw the small bottle into the trash can, and I see my phone dancing on the counter. The name Mechanic lights up the screen. Yes . . . my car. “Hello,” I answer, trying not to drip on the phone.
“Oh, hello, is that Tristan?”
“Yes. Speaking.”