Page 24 of Love is an Open Book
I highlighterroneouslyto check the definition and snort. Erroneously my ass.
Your seat is an ergonomic, cushioned marvel of engineering (see link to the product description and note the five-star rating). You should count yourself lucky to rest your butt in such luxury.
“Pretty sure talking about your colleague’s butt in the workplace is frowned upon,” I say.
She keeps her eyes on the screen, but the corner of her mouth lifts in a grin. “We have great lawyers. I’m not worried.”
Oh, that’s how she wants to play it. “Fine. We’ll see how you do when complaints start stacking up.” From what I’ve read, a lot of office-romance novels are basically a long string of HR violations.
Typing furiously, I write a reply and send it to her. Two minutes later there’s a response in my inbox.
RE: Workplace-appropriate behavior
Hello again,
With all due respect, Mr. Lane, we’re wondering how you have the time to file multiple formal complaints during business hours. While we failed to use the proper anatomical term for your gluteal region, we believe you understood our meaning. Your posterior is blessed to be sitting in Mia’s chair of choice, and she’s quite frankly an angel for bestowing it upon you.
P.S. Furnish your own chair if you’re going to be such a crybaby.
I let out a laugh. “You’ve resorted to name-calling?”
“Better than wasting time with falsified claims.” Her posture is rigid, shoulders back, as if she’s getting into the character of the prim-and-not-at-all-proper boss. It shouldn’t be sexy, and it’s not, of course. Nothing about her precise words and hint of wickedness is at all arousing.
I shift in my seat, and my focus gets yanked from how closely we’re toeing the line between joking and flirting to how massively terrible this chair is. “I meant every word. Feels like I’m being eaten by a Venus flytrap.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, but she keeps her expression neutral. “It’s firm, to establish good posture.”
“It’s a torture device.”
“Ungrateful.” She’s smiling now.
“Unethical.”
She laughs. “I really didn’t mean to punish you.” Her expression turns apologetic. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I don’t hate it.” I’m not talking about the chair. I’m talking about having this side of Mia—flirty, teasing—directed at me for the first time. “But yeah, it is pretty bad,” I say, covering my slip. “Want to switch?”
“Won’t help. This one’s the same.”
I’m shocked she owns two of these monstrosities. “You keep a backup?”
“I ordered an extra one for you,” she mumbles. “When you agreed to this, I figured the least I could do was make sure you were comfortable.”
“You bought me a desk chair?” That’s pretty damn sweet.
“Yeah, but you hate it.” She looks dejected, and I instantly want to fix it.
“Okay, yeah, I do. But you spent hundreds of dollars on this?” I clicked through the link—it retails for over five hundred dollars. And she must’ve assembled it, too. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re doing this for me.”
“Hanging out with you for the afternoon isn’t a hardship.”
“It’s not just hanging out with me, though, is it?” She holds my gaze, long enough that warmth blooms in my chest. I’m an expert at pushing it aside, but lately my feelings for her are resistant to pruning, like a weed, and just as unwelcome.
“Since we haven’t discussed what exactly we’re doing here, it kind of is.”
“Good point. We need roles to play,” she says, and her cheeks flush a deep rose color.
