Page 60 of My Office Rival

“Well, hurry up, I want to see if I’m right.”

“Try not to sound too gleeful, please. I’m beginning to regret buying you a paper this morning.” I tapped my pencil against the paper. She puttered around the kitchen and I snuck glances, almost involuntarily. She was wearing the world’s tightest tank top and black sweatpants that somehow managed to both hug her ass and ride low on her hips. It was a miracle of physics. I swallowed and refocused on my paper.

“What’s eleven across? Lothario?” That one was stumping me.

“Casanova,” she responded immediately, pouring what had to be her third cup of coffee, based on the sheer amount of energy she had.

“If you finish all that coffee, you better make another pot,” I grumbled.

“Ooh, someone’s growly in the morning.” She propped her hip on the counter and eyed me over the rim of her mug.

“Only when I don’t sleep.” Which, admittedly, was most nights. But last night had been particularly bad. My head felt stuffed full of cotton.

“Don’t you survive on like four or five hours a night? What’s keeping you up?” She wasn’t even looking at me, instead rolling her pen between her lips, while she contemplated her folded crossword.

“I think you know,” I growled. She looked up and the heat between us flared into full-blown, blood-pumping desire. Her tongue swiped across her lips, and my pulse thudded.

She reddened. “Oh, that.” All her bluster and confidence were gone. All that was left between us was raw need. I wanted her again, on this table, on the couch, any way I could have her.

“That,” I said shortly and went back to my crossword.

“Well, maybe our activity today should berelaxing. Since it sounds like you could use a break.” I heard the laugh in her voice. “Oh, maybe they have a spa here.” She practically sighed the word.

I snorted a laugh. This woman. She could be taken out of New York City, but she’d never change. She was unapologetically herself. “I don’t think they have spas here. And if they did, I’m not sure you’d want to use one. Booth is more of a strip mall nail salon kind of place.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Well, short of us oiling each other up and trading massages, I’m all out of ideas.”

I nearly choked on my saliva. “You did not just say that.” When I finally looked over, she was wagging her eyebrows suggestively. I groaned. Images of her oiled up and spread out on a table assaulted me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images only grew starker behind my eyes. Me shoving into her while her breathy sighs encouraged me. The taste of her on my lips. “You’re going to kill me. I don’t think I will survive this deal,” I said, voice hoarse.

She grinned but let it drop.At least she’s not making this weird.No,we were totally back to normal, and that was part of the problem. I was adrift, when I was the one who kept insisting we couldn’t fool around. She was unaffected, it seemed. I hated it and I was jealous of it at the same time.

“So, anyway, if we can’t spa, what should we do? Are we seizing the day?” She changed the subject and I gratefully let her.

“I have some ideas.” And I did. After all, I’d had an entire night to think of things I wanted to show her, ways to make her let go. “It’s a surprise, though. Get dressed and be ready in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” She winked, and I smothered a groan.

“But first, breakfast.”

36

CYNTHIA

“No, not like that.”

I let the whisk clatter down onto the counter.

“Well, show me how you would do it then,chef.”

Jason and I were in the kitchen. It was late morning, weak sun streaming in, and he was attempting to show me how to make waffles and something he called a French omelette, but mostly he was just criticizing my mixing skills and generally being a sexy pain in the ass.

He grabbed the bowl and tilted it confidently to the side before he started whisking in a circular motion, much faster than I had been. The muscles of his forearms shifted under his skin, and my mouth went dry. This is what he would look like if he were someone’s really hot husband, making breakfast in bed for her. He’d probably top the pancakes with whipped cream, but only for her, not for himself. She’d offer him a taste, but only if he licked it off her. My stomach tightened. His clever tongue, his rough hands.

“Are you paying attention?”

I snapped out of it. “Um, yes.”

He raised an eyebrow and kept whisking. “See how fast I’m going? You need to aerate the egg whites. Whipping them like this meansyou’ll get stiff peaks.” He was utterly focused on his task while my mind flashed back to the couch earlier this week.Fast. Whipping. Stiff.

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