Page 42 of Citius

Joaquin shrugged and wiped his mouth. “More self-serving than anything. I like it when he’s happy. This makes him happy, and I get to eat kick-ass food. Win-win.”

He reached into the bag and set a container on the table between us.

“Peach cobbler. If you want it.”

I eyed him with suspicion. “What’s the catch?”

Joaquin leaned forward, intrigued by my prickly response. “What makes you think there is one?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Huh.” Joaquin held my gaze, tattooed finger rubbing against the handle of his plastic fork. “Didn’t realize sharing a bit of sweetness could be such a loaded proposition.”

“Of course not, given your most successful pick-up line involved a new stylus.”

“You heard about that, huh?” His sunglasses couldn’t contain the devilish amusement in his dark brown eyes. “He talks a lot about you, too. Always the highlight of his day.”

“Can’t imagine why.” I glanced at the time on my phone. There were five minutes until my shift started.

“Surely, you can see the appeal of a smart, sassy professional. Such as yourself.”

Why was I bothering with this man?

I put the lid on my container of half-eaten pasta salad with a sharp snap. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Younger. Co-worker. Already mated.”

“I don’t see how his age matters.” Scrunching his brow, Joaquin ran his tongue across his teeth. “He’s like, what, two years younger than you? Three?”

“I’m almost thirty-two.”

“And he’s almost twenty-nine. So what?”

I stared at Joaquin. “Isn’t he, like, twenty-five?”

My memory wasn’tthatbad. Or had I never actually learned Alijah’s age?

“Another victim of his baby face.” Joaquin indulged in a raspy chuckle. “Not that it’d be a bad thing to have an age gap.”

He nudged the container of peach cobbler toward me, then rapped his fingers against the lid.

“We’re all consenting adults.”

I glanced between his defined fingers and angular face—tempting andlikely treacherous.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-five. A little younger than Owen. Speaking of Redmonds…” He shot me a rakish grin and speared another piece of brisket. “Alijah mentioned that you know Wyatt?”

“Yes. And I know how old he is, too.”

One year younger, twice my size, and three inches taller.

“See, it’s that sparkling wit. Right there,” he said with a slow flick of his fork in my direction. “Since you know Wyatt from back in the day, I have a question. Did he ever have a girlfriend? Or some girl he was especially close to.”

A newly forged iron spike embedded itself in my prefrontal cortex.

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