Page 9 of Get It In Writing
Or a little bit of both?
I rip the page out of the notebook and walk it over to her desk. I like that having her around makes me get up and move. Too much time has been spent over the years with my butt in that chair.
As I walk away, I hear her shift in her seat. She’s probably wet, but I don’t turn around or wait for an answer. I just quietly go back to my office and shut the door behind me, then punch in her extension on my desktop phone.
“This little game fun for you?” I ask when she picks up.
There’s just breathing on the other end - sweet, sexy breathing, like she’s trying to keep it together and not moan into the phone.
She clears her throat and pushes her hair over one shoulder, cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder as she looks over at me.
“This is supposed to be fun?” she asks, slipping one leg over the other. She isn’t trying to be sexy - she just is.
“Well, I’m having fun,” I say. “And I’m just getting started.”
“I’m glad this is fun for you, but I have work to get done over here. I can’t really be stopping myself to serve every one of your whims. Every time you feel like flirting with me, that’s a moment I go without working, and that’s like money out of the pocket of the firm, isn’t it? Time is money, isn’t it, Mr. Harper?”
“Tick, tock, then,” I say, mindlessly re-arranging a paperweight and a few pens on my desk. “What time do the receptionists usually leave for the night?”
“You don’t know when your own staff leaves for the night?” she asks, glancing over at me and then down at the note I’ve left her.
“No, I guess not. You’re usually long gone by the time I pack it in for the night. And when you leave, my eyes are glued to your ass, so I don’t have a chance to look at the time.”
“Five, Mr. Harper. I’m leaving tonight at five. Which means that if you want that drink with me, you’ll have to cut out early.”
“That’s fine with me,” I say, checking my watch. It’s already three-thirty, and I have a few more things that I absolutely must get through before calling it a night.
“And when we get to the bar, maybe you can tell me the story behind all of your tattoos,” she says.
“I’d like that, but I don’t know if that’s going to work,” I say. The place I plan on taking her isn’t a place where you can really talk. It’s more of a place where you can quickly exchange names, take a few shots, and maybe if you really strain you can hear your companion talking over the noise. I think she’ll like it, and the last thing I want to do tonight at the bar is talk.
But I just want to show her a good time. We will have more than enough time to talk later.
“Why’s that, boss?” she asks.
“Crowded bar. Too loud. Not intimate enough.”
“So would you rather take me somewhere intimate?” she asks.
“I thought you’d feel more comfortable somewhere less intimate for our first date.”
“So this is a date?”
“If you say it is,” I respond.
“I thought it was just a drink,” she says.
“I think something is getting lost in communication here,” I joke. “I’ll pick you up at your desk at five sharp.”
“Don’t be late,” she says. “Or I might have to come and get you myself.”
“I won’t be late. I’m watching the clock.”
