Page 89 of Beauty and the Beach

I shake my head and go into the men’s room, debating before I finally decide to take a lightning-fast shower. I feel significantly better after I do, and I make it out of the changing room about ten minutes before Holland appears, also freshly showered.

Office clothing isn’t her natural style, but there’s something incredibly appealing about the way she wears it; thebuttoned-down shirt, the slim-fitting skirt, the heels she probably hates.

Amazing that I can notice these things now instead of pointedly ignoring them.

“Pencil skirts are the worst,” she says with a frown on her face as I approach her. “And so are pantyhose. I need to tell Wyatt that.”

“I’m sure he’d love to know,” I say. “Let’s go.”

“And the heels—I can walk in them, I guess, but they’re just uncomfortable. It feels like my foot is contorting into unnatural shapes.”

“Well, you look great,” I say dryly.

“Do I?” she says, looking startled.

“Yep.” I don’t feel the need to deny it—not now. “Something about the buttoned-up look.”

“Huh,” she says. “Like the sexy librarian thing, kind of?”

Good grief. “I can’t talk about this with you right now,” I mutter. “Come on.”

Her heelsclick-click-clickon the floor as we return to the elevators, theding!echoing quietly through the hall. I pull out my employee badge when we get in and scan it before pressing the button for the twenty-third floor.

It still works, which is something, at least. We’ll see how long that lasts.

“You should know,” I tell her as the elevator begins its ascension, “that I might become very rude up here.”

She lets out a loud, theatrical gasp. “You? Rude?Never.”

“Believe it or not,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips, “I’ve never treated you scathingly.”

“I know,” she says, sounding exasperated now. “You don’t need to warn me. I’m prepared, PheePhee.”

My head whips toward her so violently that my neck muscles protest. “Excuse me?”

“You said I could call you whatever I want, didn’t you?”

I turn my body to face her and advance slowly, stepping closer and closer as she backs up until finally she bumps into the elevator wall.

“I did say that,” I tell her in a low voice, “but I spoke under the assumption that you wouldn’t abuse my permission.” I’ve put up with a variety of bird names, but I draw the line atPheePhee.

“Fine,” she says as her eyes sparkle up at me. She wraps her arms around my waist and tilts her head up and to the side; because of her heels, this puts her lips right at my ear. “How do you feel about being calledHusband?” she whispers.

“Much better,” I say as my hands come to rest on her shoulders. Then I let them trail up her neck until they cradle her face. I allow myself to indulge in one display of workplace PDA, pressing my lips softly to hers.

“Should we make out in this elevator?” she says when I lean back again.

Yes. Immediately.

“Probably not,” I say with a sigh. “Cameras”—I jerk my chin at the small blinking light in one corner— “and professionalism in general.”

“I bet they’d love to watch,” she says, turning her gaze to the camera.

“I have no doubt,” I say, my lips twitching again. “But it’s still a bad idea.”

“Fine,” she says, but she’s smiling too.

When the elevator eases to a stop and the doors open, however, her smile fades as quickly as mine does.

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