Page 73 of The Situation
The office grows quiet, and I don’t know what to say. It’s never good to pile on when someone remarks negatively about their family. But the flash in his eyes when he mentioned his dad makes me curious.
“Aurora, if you don’t mind, I’m going to head back to my desk and get started on these replies,” Tally says.
“Great idea. If you need anything, let me know.”
“I will.” She grabs her computer and stands. “It was good seeing you, Mr. Brewer.”
He gives her a dazzling, panty-dropping smile. “You, too, Tally.”
She trips on a chair leg on her way out.
Tate shuts the door behind her.
“You wield that thing like a weapon,” I say, sitting back in my chair.
“Whatthing?”
“That smile.”
He sits on the corner of my desk. “I’ve smiled at you several times, and you seem to be defending yourself just fine.”
If he only knew just how often I’ve gone to war with myself over his smile, among other things, he’d be surprised.
I look at him, smirking from his perch above me.
No, he wouldn’t.
I wondered how often we’d see each other during the normal course of the day. He was nowhere to be found when I arrived at six thirty this morning. I saw him briefly after lunch, but a little wave was our only form of connection. A part of me feels relieved that I haven’t seen him a lot … and another part of me is disappointed.
“How has your day been?” he asks.
I glance around the mess on my desk. “Productive. One of my superpowers is being productive when I’m avoiding something.”
“Don’t you mean someone?”
I grin. “Are you insinuating that I’m avoiding you?”
“Have you been avoiding me?”
“Not specifically,” I say.
“And to think that my goal has been trying to run into you all day,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “This doesn’t bother you, does it? Me being in your office? Because if it does, I’ll go.”
I wish I could say that it did, but it would be a lie. Because every time someone has passed my doorway today, I’ve held my breath, hoping it was him. And that is the problem. We get along so well. If things were different, I can easily imagine being friends with Tate Brewer. He’s fun, his sense of humor is on point, and his wit is perfection. He’s also smart, kind, and respectful.
Damn him.
“No, it doesn’t bother me,” I say softly.
He pushes off my desk. “So what are you making for dinner tonight?”
“That’s not at all random.”
“You said you like to cook, so I was wondering what you make on a random Tuesday night.”
“I have no clue. I haven’t been able to give it much thought. Probably whatever is in my fridge.”
He smiles. “I know this little place not too far from here where?—”
