Page 39 of Never Have I Ever

“Calling me sweetheart on the job is not how it works either, but here we are.”

Setting a carton of eggs on the counter, he stops, oh so close to me, so much so that he’s looking down, and says, “Yes, here we are.”

I’m fairly certain my boss shouldn’t make my heart race like it’s competing in the Kentucky Derby or cause my knees to weaken from a shared glance. No other boss has affected me like this, though many have tried.

I hop up on the counter by the sink and watch as he dips his head back into the fridge. I can still feel the heat emanating from this hottie from over here. And it’s nice to study him from a distance. He isn’t wearing a wedding ring, but there’s no way this guy is walking around single. Grumpy or not, he’s more than my type. A soul that’s been shattered, which only makes me wish I could heal him, yet smile-inducing funny, charismatic when he's comfortable around you, built like a professional athlete, and gorgeous. Basically, he’s everyone’s type of man.

I’m sure he has some model-caliber girlfriend, maybe even a beautiful actress since he’s from Southern California.

I don’t have trouble getting asked out on dates, but I struggle to connect with anyone. I’m so surprised it’s been so easy with him. He’s shown me his wounds, his heart, his sorrows, and shared his laughter. I’m drawn to him on such an emotionally stimulating level that I should probably be more nervous. I’m not.

Also, he’s incredibly attractive.

My gaze follows where I know his extraordinary abs are higher to his broad chest and shoulders, which could hold someone good and tight to that jaw that’s had another dusting of scruff added overnight. Those lips that lick as if I commanded them to and those striking eyes.

“What are you doing, Poppy?” Oops. Caught in the act.

Do I tell him? My cheeks flame with that same heat he’s projecting.

Do I tell him I’m a horrible person for ogling him like he is nothing more than a sexy piece of man meat and that I haven’t been with anyone in so long that I’m worried I won’t ever have an orgasm again?

Or is that too much information?

It's probably too much, especially for my boss to hear.

I’m not familiar with the notion of being immediately attracted to someone, but he’s not like anyone I’ve ever known. Laird is what dreams are made of.

“What do you mean?” Resting back, I stick out my chest, thinking it’s only fair as I feign innocence. I miss the counter, and my hand slips into the sink, sending me sideways.

Feeling my head cradled in his large hand, I release my eyes that I was squeezing shut and open them again. Pushing off the stainless-steel sink, I slowly lift my head.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “What happened?”

“Missed the counter, but yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. Great catch.” Humiliated down to my bones, I rattle on, “Did you play football in high school—”

“And college.”

“Yep,” I say, pushing my messy hair away from my face. “That tracks.” I wave my hand up and down in front of him, not knowing what else to do and hoping to befuddle him from how embarrassing that was. “I mean, look at you. You’re big—” His smirk chokes my next words in my throat. I’ve said too much. “You get the picture. I’m sure it’s not the first time you saved someone from hitting their head on a kitchen faucet.”

“It is actually.”

“Well, I’m sure it happens every day . . . in other amazing cabins across the mountains and near lakes. The number one place to sustain an injury is in the bathtub. I bet faucets fall right after that.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s amused with that stupidly attractive grin sitting squarely on his face. “I’m sure it does. Happens all the time.”

“See? You agree.” I need to shut up, knowing I’m making it five times more excruciating for myself. I hang my head, rubbing my forehead. “Please make me stop.”

I’m sure the woman he’s dating never goes on rants about home injuries. I bet she says everything perfect, like she is.

Tucking two fingers under my chin, he lifts until my eyes meet his. Is this when he tells me to go? To pack my bags and leave before sundown? “I think it’s kind of cute, so I’m not sure I want you to stop.” Nope. Guess this is where he tells me I’m adorable. I’ll take adorable. It beats some other names I’ve been called.

“You think I’m cute?”

His eyes give my mouth a once-over before rising and smiling. “Yep.”

Turning toward the island, he starts fondling the eggs while staring at them like they’ve turned against him. I’m beaming like a fool because this man thinks I’m cute. Like confirmed it to my face, which is apparently cute to him.

Sure, I can see regret rolling up his neck in the form of a pale embarrassment, but I’m not pretending this didn’t happen like the foot touches earlier. Just before I have a chance to do what the fondling of the eggs even couldn’t—make it awkward—he grabs a pan from the drawer. “I need to eat. I’m fucking starved. Do you like omelets?”

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