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How the hell am I going to work with him for two hours every day? I can't think about anything but him touching me again.
I clear my throat. "Would you teach me about design if I asked?"
"Yes, but I can find someone who knows more. I mostly learned from my mother. She was an artist. Her work was modern."
"Like the guy with the paintings that are all one color?"
"Ellsworth Kelly."
"Yeah! That's it." One of the paintings catches my eye. "That's him, isn't it?"
He nods.
"He has the one at the Met—the huge, single-color paintings that make up a rainbow. My sister thinks it's genius."
"And you?"
"I don't really get art." I recall a dozen rainy afternoons Kat and I spent walking around the Met. The way her eyes lit up at her favorite paintings. It was quite the revenge for forcing her to watch so much sci-fi.
I didn't mind tagging along with her, not when it made her so happy.
His hand brushes against my side.
I try to find the meaning in Nick's expression, but I can't place his expression.
"Design is all about creating a feeling in the user." He points to the painting in the corner—it's an abstract shape in a royal blue. "What does that color make you feel?"
"It's bold."
"What about the shape?"
"It's calming but dangerous. Like the ocean. A wave even." I look back to him. "Did I get it right?"
"This isn't programming. There is no right answer. Most things don't have a correct answer." He directions my attention to the code onscreen.
"What's your office supposed to feel like?"
"Power and sophistication."
"To intimidate people?"
"Not exactly."
"My apartment?"
"Softness. Purple is your favorite color, isn't it?"
"How did you know?"
"You wear it almost every day."
I look down at my outfit. My dress and shoes are black but my tights are purple. A mental check of my wardrobe suggests he's correct. Half my clothing is purple.
He pays attention to my clothing.
My heartbeat picks up. His eyes are wide. His lips are curled into the tiniest smile.
He's interested in me.
I know he is.
His attention goes to the screen. "Why don't you explain what you see here?"
I turn to the code and explain the best I can.
Nick listens intently, nodding and explaining every technical detail.
The further we get into work mode, the closer he gets to me. Until he's right behind me, his hand hovering over mine, his chest inches behind my back.
He's warm. He smells good. That hint of cologne and Nick. I hold my breath so I won't react in a way that convinces him I can't handle this. I can already tell I'll learn a lot from him.
When we break, Nick takes a huge step back. He shakes his head like he lost track of himself. Is it possible he didn't realize how close he was? That his body was taking over?
There might be some wiggle room between forgetting about that night and him firing me for pushing matters.
I try to focus on our lesson, but I keep getting distracted. His jaw is so strong. His lips are so soft. His eyes are such a lovely shade of brown.
By 10 AM, I'm exhausted. Half from the intensity of the work, half from the proximity of his body. I slip into a coding trance for most of the day. When I surface, Nick is checking my work, still close, still strong, still hard and soft at once.
There are bagels on his desk. Two bagels, each on a paper plate, each dotted with cream cheese. One is onion. One is sesame.
Nick is standing behind his computer, cool and confident and utterly untouchable. He looks so handsome.
I try to remind myself that I hate him for writing me off. It's coffee and a bagel. It's not a love letter. It's not an apology. It's breakfast.
Still.
He bought me breakfast.
It's sweet.
He nods to the bagels. "Your call."
I pick sesame. "You really shouldn't eat bagels. They're nothing but empty carbs."
"I swim two miles a day."
"No wonder you have such broad shoulders." Crap. That was out loud. My inhibitions aren't at full strength yet. It's too early in the morning for them to catch up to my mouth. "Where do you swim?"
"There's a lap pool in my building."
I pull my bagel into quarters then eighths. "I practice yoga for an hour every day. Sometimes two."
"For your back?"
"That's how it started. But then I liked how it forced me to focus on my body. And how flexible it made me."
I study his expression to see if I've caused a reaction.
His pupils dilate. His eyes go to my legs. It's quick. A few seconds, max. But it's clear as day.
I take a bite of my bagel, chew, and swallow. "I hope you don't have a lunch date. Onions will ruin your breath."
He stares at me with a look that says try a little harder with the subtlety. Okay, I'm reading into that. But there is understanding in his eyes.
"I don't date." He opens a file on his computer. "I don't have time."
"Do you have time for anything fun? Besides exercise?"
He takes a bite of his bagel. Somehow, he does it gracefully. He motions to his computer. "I'll tell you if you find a way to improve this code."
He steps aside. My ass brushes against his crotch as we switch positions. His fingertips skim my lower back.
I check his expression. It doesn't help me figure out his intentions.
It takes twenty minutes of concentration, but I find something. I point to it. "Here. This function is redundant."
He smiles, proud. "I play poker."
"For real money?"
"It's not about the money. It's about the game."
"Right. What's the entry fee?"
"Anything from twenty dollars to twenty thousand."
"But mostly the twenty thousand?"
"Usually, around a hundred dollars."
I examine his expression for any signs he's lying. There are none. It's awfully democratic of Nick, playing any poker game that will have him. "Isn't gambling illegal?"
"Call the vice squad."
"You're all about rules."
"No. I'm about being in control. When I play poker, I'm in control of the table."
"And when you have sex?"
"Lizzy. Don't. You're only making this harder."
I clear my throat. "You brought it up."
"Yes, when I have sex, I'm in control. But you already know that."
"How do you find women who are interested?"
"It's never been an issue."
"Every woman you've been with has agreed to you being in control?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"But I've enjoyed it more with some women than with others."
There's something about his voice, this edge to it. He's baiting me. Getting me back for pushing him.
Maybe I'm a fool for taking the bait, but I have to know.
"Anyone in particular?" I ask.
"You want me to say it was you?"
"If it's true."
"It is."
"Nick—"
He steps aside and points to the computer. Instantly, his posture changes. All business.
Okay. Fine. This time, I earned my blue balls. Blue ovaries. Whatever they're called.
Once again, I look to his expression for some clue to his intention. Maybe it's more than bait.
Maybe he's considering us together again.
I study him for a full minute. But I've got no idea what he's thinking.
Chapter Seven
A long yoga session exhausts my energy. I'm ready to work, to stay 100 percent professional.
The second I see Nick standing behind his desk, his tie undone, his jacket tossed aside, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows—I melt.
Is he teasing me or getting c
omfortable? Hard to tell.
There's breakfast again. The same breakfast—bagels, coffee, half and half, brown sugar.
We spend the morning working and making small talk. We take turns adding comments about robots overthrowing the government to the code.
It's the same all week. He has breakfast. He stands so, so close to me. He flirts just enough to drive me crazy.
I spend another weekend trying to burn off energy. This time, I volunteer to follow Kat to every museum in the city. I fill every spare minute, but I still fall asleep thinking about Nick.
By week three, I can't take it anymore. I go out dancing with Sarah and get home too drunk to care about anything but making my point.
I text Nick's personal number.
Lizzy: I need some DVDs. Movies about artificial intelligence. To inspire me.
Nick: Like what?
Lizzy: The Matrix trilogy. Battlestar Galactica, the new one. Ex Machina. You'd like it. It's all about a robot who manipulates men using her sexuality.
Nick: Do robots have sexuality?
Lizzy: I should ask you. You're about as close to a robot as I've ever seen. Have you seen it?
Nick: No.
Lizzy: Really?
Nick: Really. Would you rather get a rise out of me or keep your job?
Lizzy: Permission to speak freely, sir.
Nick: Permission granted.
Lizzy: Right now, I'd rather get a rise out of you. I'm drunk and frustrated. Are you at the office?
Nick: Yes.
Lizzy: I can come over there. We can have this conversation in person.
Nick: That's unwise.
Lizzy: Why?
Nick: You know why.
My cheeks flush. It's practically a confession. For Nick, at least. He might as well say because I want to fuck you.
