Page 5 of Polished Off

“Jill, you in your office still?” I hope she’s not locked away in there, obsessing over what happened this morning.

My girl’s definitely a world champ at overthinking things while also managing to push down her feelings like submarines into the depths of an emotion ocean. Since I’ve met her father, an illustrious military officer who’s the type to treat feelings like live grenades, I get it.

In contrast, my mom’s never met an emotion she won’t embrace. Growing up, Sandra Bishop never let any of us kids get away with pretending to be tough. And she’s teased me for ages about my seemingly unrequited crush on Jill.

“Tate? Did you forget something?” Jill peeks her head around the corner from her office, and I lift the paper sacks containing our lunch. Now isn’t the time to give my girl any space. The longer I let her hide out and pretend this morning didn’t happen, the more she’ll dwell on it. I risk losing her if I don’t drag her, kicking and screaming if I have to, into the discussion we need to have.

“Paperwork makes you hangry, but you always forget to eat before your stomach is too empty. Figured I’d bring lunch, and we can hang out before things get busy.”

I’m not sure Jill buys my careful nonchalance. Her eyes narrow suspiciously as if she’s expecting a trick. The scrunch of her nose when she wiggles it to sniff at the bags I’m carrying is adorably fierce.

I can tell the moment she realizes where lunch is from, because every bit of hesitancy disappears. Am I bribing my best friend with tacos from Just In Queso, so she’ll be a captive audience? I sure am. And I feel zero remorse about it.

“Did you get the al pastor ones?” She licks her lips, eyes focused on the bags as if she’s trying to x-ray vision into them.

“Yes.” I take a step forward, wordlessly urging her back into her office. On any other day, we’d sit at an empty table in the bar area since Jill’s office is crowded and small. Space won’t work for my plans today. If I’m going to push her to acknowledge the heat between us, space is the last thing we need.

“Chips and queso?” she asks as if I’d forget the most important part of a taco lunch, second only to churros and maybe, guacamole. Though that might be up for debate, considering how amazing the cheese dip is from Just In Queso.

I nod and step closer, until we’d be chest-to-chest, if it wasn’t for the bags I’m holding. She holds her ground, and for a second, my conviction wavers. If Jill tells me to back off, I will. I’d never pressure her into anything she isn’t totally into. But my instincts are blaring an alarm in my chest. This absolutely feels like a watershed moment.

Finally, after the longest five count in the history of numbers, she steps back and goes to sit down. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s possible my heart didn’t beat a single time until she moved.

“It’s not fair, you know,” she mumbles around a bite of food, her hand pressed over her mouth. Typically, she’s a stickler for eating with manners, but according to Jill, tacos are the exception. They’re too delicious to stand on ceremony. Just another adorable, quirky thing that makes her so damn loveable.

“What’s not fair?” I ask around my own mouthful of perfectly seasoned pork al pastor and tortilla.

“I was going to stop over at your place after the event tonight to apologize.” Her cheeks bloom with the sweetest blush, and I watch the color sweep down her neck to disappear under her shirt collar. The same shirt she wore earlier, soaked and pale enough there’d been no mistaking the dark shadow of her nipples or the swirling lace of her bra.

My brain takes a minute to catch up to her words, my focus so lost in the memory of how sexy her generously large tits looked with the wet fabric clinging to them. Wait, Jill apologizing?

“Huh? What do you have to apologize for? Pretty sure I’m the one—” I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper, loath to remind her exactly what I owe an apology for.

“The one who decided a bar bathroom was the perfect place to kick off International Masturbation Month?” She cocks an eyebrow at me, her lips quirked into a smirk that tells me she’s not mad.

Hearing the word masturbation from lips I’ve dreamed of one day having wrapped around my dick has blood rushing to said dick with a speed that leave me lightheaded. I shift in my seat, uselessly trying to adjust my now swollen cock. Not the time, I try to tell it, but predictably, it doesn’t listen.

Then again, if the fucker ever listened, we wouldn’t be here right now. Nothing and no one has ever driven me so insane with lust that I’d sneak away to jerk off in a bathroom. Not even when I’d been a typically hormones-for-brains teenage guy.

“Can we choose another May holiday to focus on and maybe, stop saying the word masturbation?” Because I can’t be expected to keep my wits about me and convince Jill she’s meant to be mine, if I hear one more word about flogging the log.

It’s already taking every ounce of mental fortitude to keep from picturing Jill flicking the bean to celebrate a holiday I’ve never even heard of before today. One she’s apparently decided is her favorite to joke about.

Is it too hot in here? I think something’s wrong with the air con. I should probably check and make sure the busted pipe isn’t the only thing jacked off—I mean up. Jacked up—around here.

Chapter

Seven

JILL

After the crappy morning, tacos with Tate for a late lunch definitely wasn’t on my radar. I figured it would be weird between us for sure, even if my assumptions hadn’t ruined everything. I spent the whole afternoon pretending to do the weekly liquor order and obsessing over how to apologize for being a judgmental asshole.

“I really do want to apologize, though. Need to, honestly. It’s just…when I first moved here, and we seemed to click so fast… I guess I was just freaked out by how quickly I developed feelings for you.”

Tate’s eyes meet mine, sharp and alert. I can tell he’s holding back, wanting to interrupt, but he stays quiet. That’s Tate, though. He’s a unicorn among mortal humans, for sure. He cocks a brow, impatient for me to continue, and I revise my thoughts. Maybe not a unicorn. He’s not perfect. But he’s pretty damn great.

“And?” Tate’s impatience overcomes his unicorn-ness, and I stifle a giggle.

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