Page 46 of Love is an Open Book
“Experience doesn’t matter,” I assure her. “Each year we get volunteers of all ages and abilities. Don’t worry, we’re not going to give you a chainsaw and aim you at the nearest tree.”
“That would make a good scene for a rom-com,” she says. “Or a gruesome thriller, depending on which way you spin it.”
Her imagination is equal parts cool and terrifying. “Glad we’re going for the romance vibe. I don’t need to worry about you mistaking my arm for a tree limb.”
She laughs. “Speaking of romance...” Out of the corner of my eye, I notice she’s toying with the hem of her shorts nervously. With effort, I refocus on the road. “There are going to be people around today. Let’s just stick to being ourselves. Role-play will just make things trickier and I’m already out of my element.”
“Fine by me. I’m going to have my hands full already keeping you away from the power tools.” I’m glad we’re shedding the games. If Mia reacts to me today, I won’t have to second-guess it. “You cool with a stop at my work? I need to pick up a few things before we meet the crew at the site.”
“Sounds good, but can we grab some food?”
“Got it covered.” I turn into the parking lot of our favorite breakfast spot.
“My hero,” she says airily. Ha. The heroes she writes wouldn’t need a trope test to push them to make a move. Then again, none of them have to worry about losing their best friend if they do.
I head inside but the order isn’t ready. By the time I get back to the idling truck, Mia’s dozing, mouth slack, sunglasses askew. Adorable. For once, I don’t block the surge of affection, and my breath catches with a hitch of relief, like the cool burst of lake water on bare skin at the height of summer.
But our pledge to not screw things up with romance hangs over my head, like always, compounded by the confines of the trope test. I turn off the A/C and power down the windows to distract myself, letting in the comforting scents of sod and mulch from the freshly landscaped median.
While I navigate the familiar route to work, it’s easy to feel like this is a typical day. But the moment we’re in my office, everything changes.
Mia flops into my desk chair and spins in circles, gripping the armrests. “Maybe I had it wrong. Your office is ripe for a workplace romance.”
She’s got a look in her eye that tells me she’s up to something. “What do you mean?” I grab a clipboard and thread a pencil through the top.
“Your desk is all tidy and organized. Practically begging you to sweep everything to the floor and do decidedly un-HR-approved things to me.”
My mind goes there in an instant. Mia on the desk, me between her legs, slipping my hand under the flimsy hem of those shorts...
I glance at the closed door, a full body flush taking over. “What about getting caught?”
“That would only heighten the tension,” she says. “At some point our desires would reach the breaking point.” She says this in a matter-of-fact way that shouldn’t have my mind racing after possibilities.
“We’d have to be quick.” And I’d want to take my time, knowing this might be our only chance.
“It would be messy.” Her words are a promise. “Spilled coffee, ink stains. Might even break your keyboard.”
“I’ve been wanting to replace it anyway.” My thighs bump the desk. Somehow I’ve moved closer, drawn by her voice.
She hasn’t moved, though. She’s holding herself very precisely. Both hands on the armrests of the swivel chair, fingers curled tight, posture rigid. But her legs are splayed, lips parted. Almost controlled, but not quite.
And there it is again, the reckless urge to shatter her poise, pull her down with me to the place where desire clashes with duty in tantalizing friction.
“With you on top of it, you think I’d worry about the state of my desk for even a second?” Hell no. “You’d command every ounce of my attention.”
There. Subtle, but unmistakable. The moment she lets go, her gaze dips in a hungry sweep along my lips, neck, down my chest, making my abs clench, and the desk is low enough that—
The door swings open. I startle at the noise and my elbow bangs against the computer monitor, which topples over and knocks my employee of the month plaque to the floor, like a Rube Goldberg machine gone haywire.
My boss stands in the doorway, surveying the chaos. “Thought you were volunteering today.” Her gaze lands on Mia, who froze the moment the door opened. “Mia Brady.” The name is infused with all the warmth of an aunt greeting a long-lost niece she hasn’t seen in years. “You’re even prettier than your author photo.”
Mia sits up straighter. “Um, thank you.”
Stooping to retrieve the framed award, I tell her, “This is my boss Faye.”
“One of them,” she says with a grin. “My husband’s a late riser. Never makes it in until afternoon.” She puts her hands on her khaki-clad hips. “Come to think of it, why are you here this morning? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting the crew at that vacant lot on Fifth Street?”
“Just picking up some supplies.”
