Page 44 of Power Play

I scrub a hand over my mouth, but damn it, the smile won’t go away. “I’m not gloating.”

“You’re gloating.” She swings her chair around so that she can watch me. “Go ahead, tell me how good the sex was again.”

My grin feels like it could splinter my face in two, I’m smiling so hard. “It was great.”

“Your attention to detail is lackluster.”

I point my ballpoint pen at her. “Says the woman who refuses to write anything longer than one thousand words.”

“Not everything that’s longer is better,” Casey quips, pointing her pen at me like we’re in a battle. “Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘The size doesn’t matter as long as you know how to use it’?”

My mouth drops open. “One, I don’t think that’s exactly the correct phrasing. And, two, please tell me you didn’t just quote a penis metaphor.”

“Concise syntax is sexy. I’m telling you, Charlie, shorter is better.”

Lifting my hand, I shake my head, as laughter breaks loose from my chest. I don’t think I’ve ever felt thishappybefore. If I have, it’s been years, probably close to the time before Dad was diagnosed.

“You’re sick, Casey.”

“You keep saying so, but no one else agrees with you.”

“They’re just too polite to tell you so.”

Still laughing, I switch my focus from my coworker to my email server. Quickly I scan the last line of the new article I’ve written: “I don’t plan on leaving Boston until Boston kicks me out.”

It’s perfect. Brilliant.

Honestly, if I hadn’t written the piece myself I’d be praising the journalist who had. With a little prayer sent up to the journalism gods, I click SEND and release my new feature on Duke into the wild.

Or, rather, to the office downstairs, which has Josh’s name plastered on the door like the calling card of doom.

It’s Wednesday, two-forty p.m., which means I’m just ahead of my deadline. Which is great, because I have plans. Plans that involve Duke, me, and two pairs of hockey skates. He’s taking me ice-skating to, and I quote, “see what I’m made of.” All day, my excitement has been radiating like a physical force field that just won’t quit.

“Leaving already?” Casey asks, already knowing the answer.

I clock out on the computer, and with a dismissive sweep of my hand, flick my trashy article about Duke into the garbage bin. I’m better than that nonsense Josh was spewing about on Monday.

“I’m meeting Duke at the rink.”

“Sexy.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

But as I drive two towns over to the ice rink, so that I can meet Duke for a skating session, I have to agree with Casey. Everything about Duke is sexy, from his good looks to the way he moans my name when he’s deep inside me.

Call me a nerd, but what I like most is the way he looks at me. The way he teases a smile onto my face, even when I least expect it.

Okay, let’s face it: I’m besotted.

I fancy the guy.

This time around, I think the guy fancies me too.

And that’s unfamiliar territory, to be honest.

By the time I reach the rink, I’m a bundle of nerves. Although I met up with Duke yesterday for a quick lunch, this is the first time we’ll actually be hanging out at length after I, you know, spent most of the night at his house after the charity event.

What? So I like sex.

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