The wheels of my mind spin around and around as I watch his retreating form. They’re still spinning while I’m making coffee in the kitchenette a few minutes later, pondering his strange reaction to Adam’s flowers.
A thought occurs to me as I’m pouring the milk into my mug. Brandon was flirting with me on Friday night—when he was grilling me about my fake date with Adam over the phone. He said he was going to file the mini golf date idea away for us. Then he asked me if I’d let Adam kiss me goodnight, knowing full well the whole thing was a lie. At the time, I thought nothing of it. Brandon would flirt with a brick wall if it could talk back.
But . . .
I hadn’t made the connection earlier, but could Brandon havefeelingsfor me? Like,romanticfeelings? I mean, he’s obviously attracted to me. I see him checking me out all the time—even when he thinks he’s being discreet about it. But . . . as far asgenuinefeelings go, no. Brandon has never been interested in real relationships. And, sure, one could argue that he’s always loved me as a friend, but could he have feelings for me beyond that?
My heart lights up with pleasure over the idea as I sip on my coffee. It makes perfect sense. Why else would he be acting so jealous about the flowers?
No. I shake the thought from my brain as I return the milk to the fridge.That’s the type of wishful thinking that got you into hot water before, Genevieve. The hope for more always leads to heartbreak with men like him. He doesn’t want you the way you want him. He made that perfectly clear the morning after you slept with him, remember?
I almost drop my mug as the emotional impact of the memory slams into me with the force of a wrecking ball.Must avoid falling into that trap at all costs. Even if it means I have to quit my job and move across the country.
As I’m heading back to the front desk, another memory flits through my mind. I must have been sixteen . . . maybe seventeen at the time. It was Memorial Day weekend, and Brandon had brought a date to a grill out at Jamie’s place. When his date got up to get a drink, I asked him if she was “the one.” I was infatuatedwith him at the time (let’s be real, I’ve always been infatuated with him), so I needed to know if they were serious or not.
He got a real kick out of my question. When he was done laughing, he winked at me and confided that there wasn’t “one” woman for him.
How had I been so blind?
Then, I made an off-hand comment about how he looked nicer than usual—way too nice for a casual grill out. His response has apparently stuck with me—even after all this time. He said, “It’s the little details that women notice, Spitfire. Being clean-shaven, wearing a nice-smelling cologne. A crisply ironed shirt.” He leaned toward me with a smile. “And they want to feel pursued. Adored. If you can look nice and chase them a little, they’re putty in your hands.” He patted my shoulder affectionately. “Don’t date until you’re at least thirty, okay, kid? You’d be doing yourself a massive favor. Guys are pigs.”
Back then, I had no idea he was referring tohimselfas a pig. Now, the memory makes my blood boil. How had I let him fool me? How could he do it? My stomach rolls with sudden nausea. Did I ever know him, really? Or did I only see who he wanted me to see?
Unsurprisingly, I never saw his grill out date again.
I’m still stewing in my anger as I organize the ornaments into piles, trying to decide how I want to decorate the tree, when Brandon and Gladys meet in the hallway to discuss something. Brandon leans against the door frame as he talks to her, crossing his arms as he laughs.
I glare at him from my vantage point at the front desk. He’s got his readers on, and his attention is focused on Gladys as he scratches his jaw, listening intently to whatever she’s saying, totally clueless about how infatuated I still am. My eyes drag down his tall, lean form without my permission, appreciating him against my will. He is glorious. If I were the female version of him, maybe I’d love and leave my fair share of the opposite sex, too. Why not?
But I’m not.
And I’ve only ever had eyes for him.
Said eyes catch on his gold cufflinks as they glint in the overhead light.
It’s the little details that women notice, Spitfire. Being clean-shaven, wearing a nice-smelling cologne. Acrisply ironed shirt.
His delicious cologne.
His freshly ironed shirt.
The cufflinks.
And they want to feel pursued. Adored. If you can look nice and chase them a little, they’re putty in your hands.
Asking me to be his assistant.
Driving me to and from work.
The stationery.
Letting me decorate the office.
Our flirty phone call on Friday night.
Offering to come with me to the doctor.
No way. No. Way.This man has his sights set on me.Again.Why?
