Page 76 of All's Well that Friends Well

“I…guess so?” I say, my voice hoarse.

She nods and takes another tiny step forward, so that there’s barely a foot between us, and the scent of strawberry shortcake grows more potent. “Noted. Am I allowed to touch your neck?”

That one’s easy. “Definitely not,” I say.

“Sad,” she says with a little sigh. “Okay. And what about your muscles? Am I allowed to touch?—”

“No touching,” I say through gritted teeth. “None. In addition, our conversations will remain work-related.”

“Definitely,” she says, looking serious as she nods again. “I can definitely do that.”

Yet as she looks up at me, somehow I know there’s abutcoming.

And she doesn’t make it two seconds.

“But—” she begins, and I pull my glasses off, scrubbing my hand over my face with a groan.

“But we are friends, you know?” she goes on. “So I’ll talk about work stuffin a friendly way. That’s okay, right?”

One conversation should not be this tiring. I sigh. “Yes. That’s fine. You’re not a robot.”

“Perfect,” she says happily. “And what about smiling? Am I allowed to smile at you?”

I blink at her, my glasses still hooked over my finger. “Yes…? Why wouldn’t you be allowed to smile?”

“Because,” she says, dead serious now. “As we’ve discussed, I’m very beautiful. But you’re unsure if you want to fall in love with me. So I’m not sure where we stand on smiles?—”

“Out,” I say, stepping to the side and yanking the door open. I point to the hallway outside. “Go. Out.”

“Don’t we have other things to discuss?” she says.

“No.”

“Nothing else? Because I have other questions,” she says as I direct her firmly through the door. “What if you have food on your lips but your hands are full so you can’t wipe the food off yourself? Am I allowed to touch your lips?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and continue nudging her; she’s putting up a lot of resistance for someone in heels.

She continues talking to me over her shoulder, her words coming faster. “Or what if I trip and stumble into your chest?—”

“No stumbling,” I say. “No more questions.” And I can’t tell if I want to laugh or tear my hair out or just—just?—

Kiss her again.

With one last push, I get her out into the hall, where she turns to face me.

“What about crying?” she says. This question is less playful. “I know you don’t like it. Am I allowed to cry?”

I pause. “Always,” I say, my voice hoarse. “But you’ll be required to tell me exactly why you’re crying.”

Her gaze darts over my face as another smile blooms over her lips—a small, warm smile, one that lights her eyes.

“Deal.”

I nod. “Go,” I say gruffly. Then I close the door in her face.

Which is stupid, obviously. I have nothing to do in an empty conference room. After one awkward second, I open the door again to reveal her waiting patiently.

“I need my vacuum,” she says, pointing into the room behind me.

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