Page 12 of Personal Disaster

ChapterSix

Poppy

I’m notsure when the day shifted, but at some point, I went from warily thinking that Marcus was definitely a creepy pervert, to cautiously hoping he might be a delightful pervert—a thought which shocks the heck out ofme.

There’s no room in this trip for delightful anything, so I really need to shut down the flirting.

Do I shut it down, though? Nope. I promise we can resume it later. What the eff, Poppy?

I can’t help it. After five years of being hit on by lobbyists, Hill staffers, and military men temporarily stationed in the Washington area—all of them looking for a sloppy blow job, only some eager to reciprocate, and none promising a call the next day—it’s kind of nice to do this weird tug-of-war thing with Marcus.

There still wouldn’t be a call tomorrow.

And there won’t be any sloppy anythings tonight.

Instead, we’ve got this weird, simmering tension, and it’s kind offun.

I shouldn’t trusthim.

I don’t knowhim.

I’m writing a story abouthim…

And yet right now, all I can think about is the look in his eyes when he reached for my zipper. And in that second, I wanted him to tug it down, not up, and I needed to straighten it myself, because if he’d touched me, we wouldn’t be heading out the door rightnow.

Thankfully he can’t read my thoughts, and instead of stripping me naked, he leads me out of the hotel and down the street. “We’ve got a bunch of options. Pizza, subs, a sports bar that does a half-assed attempt at being a saloon. Thai, BBQ, a couple of Mexican places…”

“Which is your favorite?”

He shrugs. “BBQ, probably.”

“Then lead theway.”

The sun is low in the sky to our west, and I can’t help but notice—again—how beautiful it is here. I tell Marcus as much, and he gives me a slow, easy grin. “Why do you think I movedhere?”

“You like it better than California?”

He nods. “Most of the time. I miss surfing, but I only managed to do that once or twice a year. Here I get out climbing almost every week. You know, when I worked at SwiftEx as a software engineer, they talked a good game about work-life balance. Mostly because our campus was in the heart of Silicon Valley and their competitors were doing the same thing. But I still worked a ninety-hour work week. I was on call a lot, had long days. Here…”

He turned in a slow circle, holding out hisarms.

“You worked a long day today, though.”

He starts walking again. “Doesn’t feel likeit.”

“How many of those shifts do you work in aweek?”

“Who’s asking? Reporter Girl?” He says it deliberately, slowly, and he watches me for a reaction.

I don’t give him one. It doesn’t rile me up tonight, and the other reaction is inappropriate. “Yes. I’m asking on the record.”

“Usually four. Sometimes five if I’m swapping with someone.”

“And thisweek?”

“No comment.”

“Really?” I hustle to get in front of him and we both stop. “Why no comment?”

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