Page 101 of The Fix-Up

His fingers brushed my hand as he shooed it aside to get to the mouse. “It’s the beginning of May.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Before April is March and February and January,” he said.

I glared at him over my shoulder. “Are we going to learn all the months of the year today, Teacher?”

“None of the accounting has been done for the entire year?” He sounded incredulous, scandalized even.

“Okay, you know what? Never mind.” I moved the mouse to close the program. “I can do this myself, thank you very much.”

“No.” He plucked the mouse from me.

“Yes.” I smacked his hand to get him to release it.

He held on tighter, his knuckles turning white. “No.”

“Yes.” I gave his hand a good, strong yank; it didn’t move. “Give me the mouse.”

“Make me.”

“Are you serious? How old are you?” I didn’t give him time to answer. I was one of five kids.Make mewas basically a war cry.

I lunged.

I used both hands to move his one. He used his shoulder to nudge me away. I planted my feet and grabbed onto his forearm for better leverage. He locked himself in place like a freaking statue.

As the younger sister of a very big dude—Chris was six five and solid muscle and he’d been that way for a long time—I’d learned a thing or two about getting one over on him. In my younger years, if I had reached an impasse such as this, I would have licked his face. Worked every time. And while the thought had some merit, I didn’t think it was the best course of action with Gil.

The office chair was on wheels, so my next brilliant idea was to pull him away from the desk. Which almost worked except…

“Holy fork, how much do you weigh?” I blew at the hair that had fallen out of my ponytail and into my face and gave the chair another yank. “Just give me the mouse.”

“No.” To punctate his point, he picked the mouse up and shoved it down his t-shirt.

“You cheat,” I yelled, letting go of the chair and almost falling from the momentum.

With a smirk, he crossed his arms. “I didn’t think there were rules.”

I don’t know if it was the smirk or the tension that had been building for days, weeks, months, but I launched myself at him. With anoomph, he unfurled his arms and latched onto my waist. I landed on his lap, my legs to one side. Without hesitation (or thought), I shoved my hand up his shirt.

Both of us froze.

My hand skimmed over his skin; the spray of hair tickled my palm. I made a small sound in the back of my throat. His skin rippled under my fingers in response. I moved my hand higher, resting it on his chest. It was warm there, soft and hard all at once. I could feel the rapid tattoo of his heart. My own heartbeat matched it.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, his mouth so close to my ear. I shivered.

I swallowed. What was I doing? There was a reason for this, right? I definitely wasn’t feeling the guy up. That could not be it.

“I…don’t remember.” I met his eyes. They were darker than usual, the pupils blown wide and his breathing was a little funny. So was mine. “I should definitely get my hand out of your shirt.”

“Probably.”

Neither of us moved. Our faces were close, maybe two inches apart. I could feel his breath on my lips.

“I’ll do that right now,” I murmured.

He nodded. But still, I didn’t move my hand, and he didn’t move it for me. In fact, both of us drifted closer to each other. Closer and closer. The pull was so strong, and I wanted so badly to see how far we would go.

---