This woman is a nut! Sticking my tongue out, I blow a raspberry at her. “You are so forward,” I giggle.
“Eh,” she says with a laugh, “There’s nothing wrong with battery operated lovin.’ Before Dante, I was in a committed relationship with B.O.B for a long time. Bob and his friends still like to make an appearance at the party, but it’s in addition to the—”
Covering my ears with my hands, I shake my head. “Ew! No, no, no! Too much information,” I sputter.
“You’ve seen my husband,” she says in a mock-whisper. “Can you blame me for being insatiable?”
“Um, no. But I can blame you for making me jealous of the fact that you’re married but still somehow having tons of fun in the bedroom. You know that you’re the exception and not the rule, right?”
Waving the celery stick that she’s holding she lets out a hmph. “That’s all baloney, you know. My parents were still passionately in love until the day they died. The only real difference in my sex life today being married to Dante as opposed to dating him is that I have to be quieter because we have kids. If anything, I’d say our sex life is actually better now than it was back then. Which is really saying something because—”
Putting my hands together in a time out motion, I shake my head. “Noooo—none of that! Seriously, I can’t take it. You’re killing me here.”
“Oh, you! I wasn’t going to tell you anything salacious. All I was trying to say is that knowing someone and having trust makes intimacy that much better.”
Yeah, sure it does—for people like Sabrina and Dante.
The second lunch was over I came back to my desk and did the dumbest thing ever.
That’s right—I went onto Google and typed in how old is Exton Alexander. Don’t judge! Sabrina mentioned the age difference and I had to find out exactly what it was, now didn’t I? You know you would’ve done the same.
The answer is ten years. I’m twenty-five, he’s thirty-five. That’s a big difference, I guess—but more than the difference is the thought that it’s also a little sad that he’s in his mid-thirties and is still banging multiple chicks each night.
Still—and I wouldn’t admit this to anyone else—there’s something about the little touches of gray that are beginning to show up in his hair that is a serious turn on. There is no boy in Exton Alexander—he’s all man from top to bottom and I like that far more than I should.
THE FACT THAT IT’S almost the end of the day on Wednesday confirms what I suspected to begin with—Exton Alexander has forgotten all about me. I don’t know why I got myself all worked up imagining that maybe—just maybe—he might get in contact. It’s not like I wanted him to or anything. Not at all.
A soft sigh escapes me as I absently twirl a pen and think about how absolutely pathetic it is that I’m twenty-five years old and essentially fit the description of being an old maid to a T.
“Deep thoughts, Beautiful?”
Letting out a little gasp I sit straight up in a nanosecond, dropping my pen along the way. Eyes wide with shock, I find myself staring up at Exton Alexander. Holy hell, he’s here, at my desk! My mind is like a hamster running on a wheel as I try to remember what the heck I’m even wearing. Welcome relief spreads through me when I recall that I’m wearing a simple azure colored blouse and a black skirt. I didn’t think he’d turn up . . . but since Sabrina told me that he asked about me, for the last two days I’ve put a little—okay, a lot of—extra thought into my appearance. It doesn’t mean anything though.
Realizing that I need to say something I blurt, “Are you here to see Mr. Hart?”
The smile that spreads across his face as he stares at me is nothing short of panty melting. I mean seriously—I think the suckers just burst into flames and disintegrated and I swear to you that the air between us is crackling with energy. What in the world is happening here?
“I’m here to see someone far more interesting to me than Dante,” he answers.
My mouth opens, then shuts, and then opens again. No words are forthcoming, so I snap it shut without a peep. Instead of filling in the silence, he says nothing, continuing to look at me calmly as I freak the heck out inside.
Exton Alexander is at my desk . . . and he isn’t here to see Dante. Also, he just called me beautiful—again. Would it be awkward if I started squealing and wringing my hands like a Southern debutante on her way to the ball while I try to make sense of what’s happening?
Finally—and trust me, it’s borderline awkward how long it takes for me to be able to form a coherent thought—I croak, “So you’re here for . . .”
“You.”
That’s it. Simple, straightforward, he’s just answered with one word. My mind is officially blown.
Oh. My. Lord. He’s actually here for me. Am I in some kind of alternate universe?
“I don’t understand . . . um . . . why?”
I swear to you, I normally have better verbal skills than this, but my ability to converse seems to have left the building. Maybe I’m dreaming. Grabbing onto that thought, I shake my head. Yes! That must be it. This whole thing—from Friday night on—must be a dream. Sliding my hand down to my knee, I lift my skirt a fraction and pinch myself. Hard.
It hurts like hell and I realize that as unbelievable as this seems, I’m actually awake. This is really happening.
“I couldn’t stay—” he falters for a second, hands sliding into his pockets as he shakes his head. “I want to get to know you better.”
“Why?”
Great—I’m so thrown off by him being here that I am now regressing to being a toddler.
Bringing one of his hands out of his pants pocket, he gestures to me. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you since Friday night. Don’t tell me that you don’t feel the chemistry too—it all but floats in the air between us. It’s the same as Friday night—so intense that I can almost see it.”
Crossing my arms—because I’m cold, not because my nipples are probably—no, definitely—poking through my bra, I let out a nervous laugh all while mentally berating myself for acting like an idiot. A hot guy comes onto me and suddenly I’m all flustered.
This just won’t do—time for me to get my act together and put an end to this insanity.
“You’ve had chemistry with pretty much every Victoria’s Secret model for the last decade. I damn well know that I’m no model, so I’m guessing flirting with a fatty is a new way for you to get your kicks. Look, I’m not interested in your games, so I suggest that you find someone else to mind fuck. In fact, you should head off and do that now. Do you need me to validate your parking ticket?”
His head rears back and his mouth falls open for a split-second before he snaps it shut and frowns at me. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, ever. You’re not fat, Beautiful,” he says firmly, “In fact I think you’re fucking perfect. You’re out of your mind if you think that you are anything less than stunning. As for the rest, I get that you’ve got an opinion about my past, but the majority of what you believe is based on bullshit. I’m not here to mind-fuck you. I’m here because I’d like to take you out, and if you weren’t so busy building a case against me, you’d say yes. I can see that you’re as affected as I am.”
Oh, he’s as frustrating as he is sexy.
“I’m not interested in you,” I answer softly.
As he steps closer to me, I realize my mistake. Like an idiot, I’ve just thrown down a challenge to him. What the heck was I even thinking by saying that? I have to remind myself to swallow when he comes around my desk and squats down in front of me.