Page 18 of The Swiping Game
“Tara!” Betty reprimands.
“I’m sorry, but this is odd,” I say, putting down the coffee—though it takes every ounce of willpower not to take a drink out of what looks like the perfect iced coffee. “Why are you being nice? You aren’t nice. You make fun of my donuts, not bring them to me.”
“Can’t a guy want to do something nice for the people he interacts with?”
“Not when that guy is you.”
Dean holds his hands to his chest, mocking as if I just stabbed him. “You wound me, Tara. Betty, why can’t she be nice to me like you are?”
“Because I’m one of a kind, dear,” she says, swiping a donut from the box before heading to the elevator. “You two play nice. Tara, call me if you need anything.”
Betty gets in the elevator, and as soon as she’s gone, I feel Dean all around me. This isn’t the first time we’ve been alone together. Hell, just last Friday it was him and me when Hunter left. But now? I feel likeI’m in his orbit.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, taking a seat back on the corner of my desk.
“Okay, what gives?”
He looks around as if I’m not talking to him. “What are you talking about? I asked you a simple question.”
“No, you asked me a nice question.” I stand because, right now, I’m too confused and too shaken to be sitting down. “You asked me a nice question after buying me my favorite snack and getting me my super specific coffee drink. Are you okay? Are you dying?”
This makes him laugh. “I’m not dying. And before you ask, no, I did not poison it or prank your food in any way. I was running a little ahead of schedule this morning. I was in a good mood and thought I would do something nice for you. I know Neil isn’t the easiest to work for, and this probably isn’t what you want to be doing right now, so I thought I would do something nice for you.”
I stare into Dean’s eyes—which I just realized are a fascinating shade of green and gray—looking for one smidgen of dishonesty. Or mocking. Or teasing.
None of that’s there. He seems sincere. Sweet.
Two words I never thought I’d use to describe Dean Braxton.
“Thank you,” I say, the words not coming out as easily as they should. “That was very nice of you. But how did you know my coffee order?”
Just as he begins to speak, the elevator doors open, and in walks Neil, flanked by two of our public relations team members.
“Dean,” Neil greets, walking toward the both of us and extending his hand out to shake Dean’s. “What a way to start the morning. And look, donuts. Follow me. Let’s talk contracts.”
Neil grabs one of my donuts and marches back to his office, not even giving me a second glance or bothering to acknowledge that I’m here.
“He couldn’t even say hello to you? Has he always been like that?”
I shrug, turning my chair to flip on my computer. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.”
I look up at Dean, and for the second time this morning, I’m a little confused when it comes to my nemesis. Earlier, it was his kindness that threw me. Now I feel like he wants to go defend my honor or something.
I don’t know what kind of bizarro Monday this is, but it’s freaking me out.
“Really, it’s okay,” I assure him, reaching for my coffee and taking a sip. “Thank you for this. It’s perfect.”
He smiles and gives a little knock at my desk. “I’m glad you like it. Have a good day, Tara.”
I can’t help but stare as I watch Dean walk back to Neil’s office. And it has nothing to do with his ass, which makes that suit look like it was made for him and only him. Or the fact that the cologne that made me want to choke last week is now lingering in the air. Or that it’s only eight in the morning, but his beard is already at that perfect length—not too long but long enough that you’d feel it on you hours after it grazed your skin.
“No,” I chastise myself, giving my head a little shake. “That is Dean. That is the definition of a snake in a tailored suit. Don’t be fooled by delicious donuts and the perfect coffee.”
I click on my computer and grab my phone as I wait for my email and other various programs to load. I didn’t expect to see it, but I have a message from James.
Yes, James. A man I’ve spent all weekend talking to and getting to know, and who I bet doesn’t have an annoying or frustrating bone in his body.
James: Counting down the hours until we talk again.
I hold my phone to my chest—of course, after reading it no less than thirty times. I probably look ridiculous, but I don’t care. I feel like a teenager who just got asked out after a cute boy passed her a note.
And after the last few years, this feeling is one I’m going to hold on to. Because it feels pretty damn good.
