Page 16 of Champagne Fizz

“Where Arie can’t hear us plotting?”

I stare at him. That’s a good point. “That too,” I concede.

“Hmmmmm,” he contemplates, looking me over before saying. “I bet you’d dig the Gin n’ Lava. Ever been there?”

“That dive bar by the beach?” I step back, not sure if I should be insulted. “What about me screams I drink neon-blue hurricanes and all-things tiki?”

“It’s colorful,” he says, tossing me a wicked smile and nodding to my suit.

“I scream pina coladas and tiny umbrellas?”

“Kinda,” he nods. “Weddings with Hart and tiny tiki drinks. It fits your vibe.”

“My vibe?” I bristle, incredulous.

“Everyone has a vibe,” Simon defends.

“And my vibe isn’t loud-mouth-witch-face-with-the-horny-talk enough for you?” I growl, motioning to Arie who is somewhere on the other side of his office door, probably saying just as colorful things about me.

“I like that you don’t talk like Arie,” Simon says with a wink. “How about I meet you at the Gin n’ Lava at eight. Feel free to change into your hot pink suit, or the lavender one. I’m sure you have the whole rainbow of them in your closet.”

I bite my lip and try to smile. He’s mocking me, of course. But if I want to make this wedding work, then I’m going to have to let one or two of those barbs roll off the ol’ yellow suit without waging war.

“Wonderful,” I agree. “Sounds great. And maybe you can bring your pocket protector and your tax-code journal.”

He smiles broadly. “Well, now you sound like Arie.” My face falls and he laughs deeply. “That might be why you dislike her so much, in some ways, the two of you are more alike than you’d think.”

“A metaphorical slap in the face,” I quip, batting my lashes obnoxiously. “Charming.”

He laughs again. “I’ll see you at eight.”

“Right,” I grumble. “Eight.”

I take the contract and slip out of Simon’s office, trying not to seem miffed by how this entire afternoon is going. Of course, my lady parts have a completely different opinion. The heat between my legs is a raging three-hundred-degrees-of-please-tell-me-how-many-minutes-until-it’s-eight. They want me to march home—Sue Blade style—and find myself something sexy and alluring to wear tonight.

Only, that’snotgoing to happen.

This is a business meeting. Not a I-want-you-to-get-into-my-businessmeeting.

Simon may be my sexy librarian version of catnip, but I’m not allowed to think about him like that (as demonstrated by the fact that I’m currently walking toward the bathroom to get some cold water on my neck, and on my face, and on my everything).

I’m not interested.

And even if I was interested, my body can’t handle it.

I walk into the restroom and lock the door, peeling off my yellow jacket and staring at myself in the mirror. My skin is neon pink and my nipples are hard under my camisole. As much as I don’t want to admit it, there’s a heatwave between my legs from thinking about Mr. Accountant Pin-Up of the Year sneaking into this bathroom doing something inappropriate.

Fuzz.

Hot fuzzing fuzz with a cherry on top!

My body wants—

I splash water on my face.

And if I’m not mistaken, those teasing looks from Simon might indicate he also wants—

This is a problem.

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