“Busy,” I grunt, collecting my own cup.
“Ah, that’s right.” He winks. What’s he winking at? “Up to here in sexy lingerie, I hear.” He gestures to his head on a cheeky smile.
His quip prompts one from me. I laugh. “I’ve drowned in worse.”
“How’s it going?”
“Great.”
He takes his coffee and wanders out. “Can’t wait to see the pitch.”
Slipping my cup under the spout of the machine, I select Americano. But nothing happens. “What’s the deal?” I ask out loud, standing back, out of shot, before gingerly pressing the button again. No coffee. “For fuck’s sake, you stupid fucking machine.” I know what this must look like. A growling, six-foot-four man cowering and yelling abuse to a metal box. But it holds caffeine. I need caffeine. “Why hasn’t anyone replaced this thing?” I shout, stabbing at the button again.
“There’s a knack.” The familiar, sexy as fuck voice drifts into the room, interrupting my argument with the machine, and I swing around coming face to face with Lainey. I swallow and quickly turn away before my out-of-control eyes and brain take in her perfection. Too late. After just a flash of a look, everything that is Lainey is catalogued. Her hair is down and wavy and glossy and gorgeous. Her face is fresh and beautiful and as striking as always. Her eyes are clear and bright and shimmering. She has a salad bowl in her hand, her coat laying over her arm. My dick drools over every salacious observation, starting to fill with blood. I wince, clenching my eyes shut. But I quickly snap them open again when a box of condoms infiltrates my darkness and leads to many more torturous thoughts.
It’s silent. Awkward again. After our confrontation on Tuesday evening, it’s hardly surprising. She certainly put me in my place, and I can’t deny there’s a little mortification mixed up with my . . . what? Fixation? But what’s she feeling? Smug? Superior? In control?
I need to grab my coffee and go. Except I haven’t got a coffee, because this stupid fucking machine refuses to give me one. I bite down on my back teeth, adamant I’m not going to ask for her help, and press the button again. Nothing.
“Here.” She’s next to me in a second, virtually brushing against my arm. Electric shocks attack me. So fucking many of them. And my fucking heart definitely just pinged. What the fucking hell? I jump away, and her hand pauses in midair on its way to the button I’ve been hammering repeatedly. The air around us thickens. “You need to be gentle with it,” she whispers, pushing lightly on the button.
My head turns of its own volition toward her. She’s looking at me intensely. Oh fuck. There’s a double meaning there. I’m not imagining it, and her eyes are only confirming it. Is she purposely trying to kill me, because I feel like I’m slowly dying? “Thanks for the heads-up.” My eyes drop to those rosy pink lips, finding her biting down gently on her bottom one.
Oh . . . fuck . . . yeah.
“Anytime.” Her mouth moves slowly, hauling me further under her spell. Anytime. Anytime. Anytime. I need to be gentle with it anytime. “Nice suit.” She nods at my chest.
“Nice dress.” I nod at her body, taking in air, hearing her laugh a little. Oh, damn, that sound makes me shudder. “Good week?” I ask.
“Very. You?”
I guess it wouldn’t be appropriate to tell her that my week has been hell-ish and it’s all her fault. “Great, thanks.”
“Hope you haven’t been stood up again,” she says quietly. My forehead goes heavy with a frown, and she catches it as she removes my coffee from the machine and holds it out to me. “Your friend on Tuesday night.”
“Oh.” I take the coffee, hissing under my breath when my hand skims hers. I avoid her eyes and concentrate on keeping hold of the cup. “Family emergency. Couldn’t be helped.” There goes my mind again, off to that hotel, wondering how her evening panned out after our confrontation. I bet it was significantly better than mine, and that positively sucks. Not for her, of course. I inwardly wince. “How was your evening?” Where the fuck did that question come from? How many condoms are left in the box? What the fuck, Christianson?
“Pleasant,” she muses, placing a mug under the spout. Pleasant? Not amazing. Or mind-blowing. Or out of this world. Just pleasant? Why does that please me? Now, if that had been me in the hotel bar with her, she wouldn’t be able to walk for the rest of the week. And I would be one deliriously happy man. And my cock would finally pipe down in my trousers. “But definitely not my Mr. Perfect,” she adds.
“Oh?” I fucking knew it. I saw him. I saw her. That shit was never gonna work. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. “I’m sorry about that.”