Wonder With Me (With Me in Seattle 12.5)

I cough on the sip of light roast I just took and then stare at him. “Well, I give you props for your honesty. And in that spirit, I’ll tell you right here and now that I don’t have time to date you—or anyone else for that matter.”

“I’m not concerned about anyone else,” he says, his voice perfectly calm as he watches the road in front of us. “I’m only concerned with me, and you’re just going to have to make time because not seeing you isn’t an option for me.”

I’m still staring at him, and then I bust up laughing.

“I don’t know what you find funny.”

“This whole thing,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes. “Make time? How do you propose I do that? There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and I work roughly sixteen of those hours. So when you find a way to add some minutes to the day, you let me know.”

He pulls into the driveway, but before I can open the door, he says, “Wait for me.”

I’ve never been the kind of girl attracted to the alpha type. That’s not to say I want a pushover, but the whole, I’m man, I tell you what to do thing has never appealed to me.

Yet here I am. Waiting.

He opens my door, offers his hand, and when I’m standing, he closes the door and leans into me, effectively pinning me against his expensive automobile.

I absolutely do not want to push him away. Is he being bossy? Yes. Is he sexy as hell? Also, yes.

He plants one hand on the car and dips his head next to mine.

“We make time for the things that matter,” he whispers into my ear. “Like, just now, we carved out fifteen minutes to go and get a coffee. I had you all to myself. We had a conversation, a harmless flirtation. I even made you laugh. If all I can get is fifteen minutes here and there, so be it.”

He kisses my neck—my freaking neck—and then winks at me as he walks away.

“I’ll be out of your hair in about ten minutes,” he tosses over his shoulder as I struggle to breathe.

Oh my God, I’m turned on. If there weren’t people around, I’d be fanning my face.

Damn him!

I. Don’t. Have. Time.* * * *It’s been a crazy day.

Reed’s house is looking fantastic. If I get lucky, it may be finished by tomorrow evening.

Maybe.

But if not, it’ll still be done on time, and that’s all I can really ask for.

I’ve just walked into my condo, kicked my heels off, and opened the fridge for the bottle of white I have on hand.

Sometimes a girl just needs a glass of wine.

Or two.

I smirk and pull the cork out of the bottle and fill a glass half full. On my way into my bedroom, where I’m headed to change, I get a text.

From Reed.

My body is still tingling from that little encounter in his driveway this morning.

He’s potent.

And hot as hell.

And I’m reminded as I stare down at the silly photo of Reed and Piper sticking their tongues out at the camera, that he’s a dad.

I don’t overthink it as I flip on the camera and snap a quick picture of me sticking out my tongue at them and send it off.

Rather than just changing my clothes, I think I want a hot shower. I worked hard today, hanging garlands and decorating Christmas trees, and my muscles are weary.

I usually take my phone into the bathroom with me so I can listen to podcasts while I bathe, and this time is no different. I’ve just started my favorite show, My Favorite Murder, which never fails to both creep me out and make me laugh when another text comes through.

Reed: We’re at my condo in the city, having pizza for dinner. You should join us.

I smile at the mental image of the two of them eating pizza with the skyline in the background. I have no idea what Reed’s condo looks like, or even where it is for sure, but I like the image in my mind.

Me: Thanks for the invitation. I’m in the shower, so I think I’m in for the night. I hope you enjoy your dinner!

Several minutes pass. The hosts of my podcast talk about a serial killer in Hawaii as I lather up my hair and then rinse it. Finally, when I’ve finished with the shower and I’m drying off, another text comes through from Reed.

Reed: It’s not fair to tell me you’re in the shower when I’m hanging out with my four-year-old daughter.

I laugh and snap a photo of myself in my towel and send it off to him. Yes, I’m flirting with a client. No, I don’t have time for him.

Yes, this could get messy. I’m well aware of the what-ifs and how it could all go wrong.