Page 8 of Dear Hattie

Wesley erupts from his chair, yanking off his headphones and throwing them at the wall. They clatter onto the desk instead, held back by the short cable. “Jesus Christ!”

My nemesis wheels around and slumps against his desk, staring at me, face pale. One large hand spreads over his chest, pressing down on his heart.

I cackle and wheeze until I’m gasping for breath. His face! Oh my god, his face. My legs go wobbly, and I grip the back of his chair for balance, still laughing.

Wesley’s eyes narrow, and though his voice is calm, his pulse still throbs extra-fast in his throat. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Small Fry.”

I snort with laughter, tears brimming in my eyes. His mouth twitches, but he smooths it away and goes back to being stern. Raising one eyebrow, he looms over me—despite leaning on the desk.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to interrupt a genius at work?”

Fumbling his chair around, I collapse into it, still giggling. “That’s too bad. I’ll be careful if I ever meet one.”

The chair is warm from his butt. I wriggle against it, then force myself to sit still and cross my legs.

Electronics hum, and the padded walls swallow my ragged breaths. I’m beaming. My heartbeat feels extra strong, knocking on the inside of my ribs, and I feel like I’ve just run ten miles, not snuck up on one man.

One tall, handsome,sinfulman, who watches me with those toffee-brown eyes, a wry smile playing around his mouth. Trying to solve the puzzle of Harriet Fry.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Wesley says, his tone so pleasant despite the way I made him jump. I’ll say this for my nemesis: he never holds a grudge. If anything, his eyes always spark with excitement whenever we start circling each other, like he’s silently egging me on. Like he’s desperate to see what I’ll do next.

I shrug, acting casual. Like I wasn’t just pacing around the empty work pods on the second floor, so antsy I wanted to peel off my own skin. The nerves started hours earlier and built through the day, until I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t write, couldn’t do anything except pace like a caged animal.

Only one thought brought relief:go bother Wesley.

And he’s still here! Working late on this dreary Tuesday night. Truly, the fates aligned.

“Oh, you know,” I say, plucking at my skirt then spreading the fabric over my knees. Searing eyes track my movements. “I get so many letters asking about how to deal with asshole men. Thought I’d come and do some first hand research.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Wesley’s smile is slow and pleased.

My toes curl in my ankle boots. Something throbs low in my belly, and I fight the urge to squirm again.

“I’m at your service,” Wesley says softly. “For any and all research needs.”

Yeesh.

I swallow, mouth dry.

And again, toffee eyes track the shifting of my throat, alight with equal parts hunger and fascination. The air in this room is getting warmer by the second—thicker, too. I can barely breathe, but I don’t want to leave. Not yet.

When Wesley shifts his weight against the desk, the wood creaks.

We’re inching closer. Drawn together by an invisible rubber band—one that we’ve been straining against for months. No: years.

Are we really doing this? Are we finally giving in?

“I…” I manage one syllable, my voice cracking. Then we’re both moving as one, lunging toward each other, our bodies in sync even if our minds have left the building.

My arch nemesis and I slam together like waves crashing onto the shore. The chair wheels away madly and bounces off a filing cabinet, kicked by a random limb. And we’re gripping and twisting each other’s clothes, pressing closer, teeth bared, the heat in this room almost unbearable now.

Wesley ducks down and kisses me with a snarl, and all the chatter and white noise in my head cuts out. Finally! There’s only blissful quiet, and the steady thud of my pulse, andWesley, Wesley, Wesley.

Even as our movements are frantic, even as the room swirls around us with chaos—inside I’m peaceful. Settled at last.

Thank god.

Here’s a plot twist: Wesley Tanaka doesn’t kiss like he hates me. He kisses like I’m his only source of oxygen.

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