Page 25 of Take It Offline

“Oh, of course,” she says, laying the sarcasm on so thick I could dip my fries in it.

With the first real smile I’ve managed all day, I curl into the couch a little more. “I miss you. Lunch tomorrow?”

“Definitely. And don’t let Charlie get to you. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

I wish I had her certainty.

CHAPTER 11

WRECK-LESS BEHAVIOUR

CHARLIE

There’s no two ways about it. Emma Conway hits like an anvil to the chest.

Straight to the solar plexus, putting me on my ass every goddamn time.

So maybe it’s karma that I almost hit her back. With my goddamn car, no less.

I slam the brakes hard, and the squeal of the tires finally pulls her attention away from her fucking phone—which would have helped before she stepped out into the street—my seatbelt clotheslining me as the car stops.

Fuck.

Between the brakes and my reflexes, I stop only inches from her, but the shock of it still sends her tumbling to the ground.

I throw the car in park and jump out. Emma’s flat on her back on the asphalt, her chest heaving.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? What the hell were you thinking?” I ask.

Wide eyes blink up at me. Shit, she’s in shock.

I crouch down, ignoring the horns and complaints of the cars behind me. “Hey,” I say, keeping my tone light. Her skin is cold,and she jolts when I touch her shoulder, but at least there’s a spark of recognition. I release a breath. “There you are.”

I keep trying to convince myself she’ll get less beautiful each time I see her.

Maybe next time I’ll see the shock of blond hair and fierce eyes and not want to say a little prayer to a deity I don’t believe in.

Maybe she’ll stop being so insistently competent, and I’ll get through a single fucking day without having to picture an octogenarian’s wrinkly, sweaty ball sac to cut off the salute my dick wants to give her.

Maybe the little shit will remember Emma hates me and wouldn’t touch either of us, even if it guaranteed world peace.

It hasn’t happened yet, but I always hope.

I’m a fool because Emma Conway only ever manages to get more beautiful.

“I can’t believe you almost hit me,” she pouts. “What, annoying me to death wasn’t working fast enough, so you thought you’d finish me off with your car?”

Thank fuck the question is rhetorical, because as she dusts her hands off on her knees, all I can do is stare.

She’s in pale blue tights and a matching crop that draw spectacular attention to her trim waist and full, beautiful breasts. Holy shit, is this what she’s been hiding under her clothes? I can’t work out where to look first, my eyes greedy as always to drink in as much of her as possible.

“You’re the one wish a death wish, sweetheart.”

Her chest rises and falls dramatically with every harsh breath.

She’s still blinking too rapidly for my liking.

“Fuck. I didn’t even see you,” she says.

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