Page 84 of The Overtime Kiss

I beeline for the kitchen, toss my jacket onto a stool and yank off the tie. After I grab a bag of popcorn from the pantry, I dump the sea salt air-popped contents into a bowl.

There. That’s nice, right? I can be nice as I hunt for answers.

I bring it to the couch, set it on the table. A minute later,she pads into the living room in that pink sweater, with black leggings now and fuzzy socks.

Fuck, even her socks are cute.

White with pink hearts.

“What do you want to watch?” she asks curiously as she sits down, like she’s still trying to figure me out.

Join the club.

I grab the clicker, tune into Webflix, and hunt through shows on the main menu, trying my damnedest to ignore how pretty she smells.

Like orange blossoms and something clean.

Her shampoo, maybe?

Her lotion?

It’s flowery, and it’s scrambling my brain.

I can’t focus on the menu on the screen, so I hit something—I don’t even know what. As the credits roll onThe Dating Games, I figure this will be the perfect show to ask her what’s next.

We’re silent during the opening scene.

It’s awkward since the two assistants who work together are walking on eggshells around each other at the office after hooking up the night before.

Then it’s even more tense when the woman meets her friends for coffee, and they ask if she’s going to see the guy again, and she hems and haws.

I grab a handful of popcorn and crunch down hard.

Sabrina reaches for some too and stares straight ahead.

We chew.

I stew.

One dating scene rolls into the next, and I can barely take it another second. And once the characters walk down the streets of New York City, gabbing about their worst swipe-right experiences, I snap my gaze to her, frustration boiling over.

“So, are you?” I ask, breaking the silence.

Sabrina looks at me, seeming confused, a cute little furrow digging into her brow, and I just want to touch it and kiss it.

And I’m so pissed that I feel this way as she asks, “Am I what?”

I hesitate, trying not to let annoyance and jealousy own me, as I say as calmly as I can, “Dating. Are you on the apps? Are you already seeing someone?”

But it doesn’t come out evenly at all. It comes out full of unchecked irritation. Bursting with green-eyed jealousy.

Her face tightens, but she’s not mean. She’s never mean, even as she folds her arms over her chest and looks away. “Why do you care?”

“Because I should know.”

She jerks her head toward me. “Because you’re my boss?”

Sure, let’s go with that. “Yeah.”

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