Page 67 of Accidentally Amy

“Wherever you want,” I said, realizing I meant it. I looked at that upturned face and felt a little unnerved by how willing I was to give her whatever she wanted, do whatever she requested.

“So, Paris for dinner sounds good,” she said, reaching out a hand to tug on the strings of my hoodie. “But only if we wear berets.”

“Negative. No one looks good in a beret.”

“Audrey Hepburn did,” she said, and I was so fucking into the way I never knew what was going to come out of her mouth that it had become problematic. I texted and called her way too often, but honestly, talking to her was all I ever wanted to do. I said, “Debatable, and no berets.”

“Fine.” She grinned, giving me her full-scale smile as she leaned back on her arms. “How about dinner in Tuscany?”

“You’re picky,” I said, leaning down to rub my nose against her collarbone because something about it was driving me wild. “And real Italian spaghetti is nothing like what you’re used to. I’m afraid you’ll starve.”

I lifted my head and wondered how a smart-ass smirk could make me feel so unbalanced.

“So Italy is out, then, because obviously spaghetti is the only possible dinner item.” She pursed her lips, like she was seriously considering our options, and said, “Then all that’s left is Johnny’s down on L Street, I guess.”

“Perfect,” I said, needing to kiss her again.

I lowered my mouth, hypnotized by the way she looked at me, and just when my lips touched hers, she said, “But I can’t go with you to your garage now.”

I pulled back from the kiss. “Why not?”

“You know.” She shrugged and rubbed her nose against mine, soft and slow as her breath touched my lips, and it caused a strange physical reaction. The movement made something in my chest pinch, and now I was convinced I was losing my goddamn mind. Surely it was my libido talking, because chest pinches in response to physical contact were not a real thing for grown-ass adults.

“I donotknow,” I managed, pulling back a little farther. “You’re bailing on me?”

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Chest,” she said, scooting over on the table just enough to drop her feet to the floor and stand. I watched as she tucked her hair behind her ears, took a deep breath, then hit me with, “If I see you in coveralls with a wrench in your hand, there’s no telling where the afternoon will go. And as lovely as that idea sounds, I really want to go on a date with you tonight.”

I didn’t get it at first, and then she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

“Damn it, Shay,” I bit out through gritted teeth as sexual images of Izzy and me on the trunk of her car came at me, “I told you I don’t have coveralls.”

That made her snort and tap her forehead with her index finger. “But you do up here.”

I couldn’t hold back the smile, just like I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and giving her ponytail a tug. “So I have to go to Springfield by myself because you’re a little pervert?”

She shrugged again and said around a giggle, “So it would seem.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“You’re an asshole,” I said, pulling my keys out of my front pocket. “Did you know that?”

“An asshole who will FaceTime you throughout the entire repair.” She slid her fingers through mine and pulled me behind her, through the kitchen and toward the door. Her small hand in mine, tugging me along, caused that fucking idiotic chest-pinch thing again, which would’ve pissed me off if she hadn’t made me laugh by saying, “The only difference will be that I cannot digitally goose you while you lean over my engine.”

“You would’ve goosed me?” I asked, releasing her hand to mess with the tendrils around her face that had fallen out of her ponytail. “Digitally?”

“You know what I mean,” she said, laughing and batting at my hands. “I was referring to the method of communication, not the method of goosing.”

She went up on her tiptoes and kissed me then, and I was still grinning like an idiot when I climbed into my car and put the keys in the ignition. I was about to pull away when the phone buzzed in my pocket.

I expected it to be my little smart-ass, texting her usual bullshit from the window, but it was an email from my boss instead. I was miles away from caring enough to read it—it was after hours, for fuck’s sake—when I saw the subject line.

Re: Reconfigured Org Chart—V.2 (revised)

“Son of a bitch.” I got that feeling in my gut, the one that told me I was going to fucking hate that attachment, and I rubbed my temple with my fingers.Shit, shit, shit.

But just as I was about to click the attachment, I closed the email app instead.

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