“That is flirting,” I say. “When you call me a name like that.”
She smirks. “Okay, fine. How about…Mr. Evans?”
“That’s worse,” I say.
She leans in a little. Whisper-soft: “Sir?”
I swear my soul leaves my body.
She immediately bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, I need to stop. I’m sorry. I’m really trying here.”
I collect what remains of my dignity. “Thank you. Appreciated.”
“Seriously,” she says, exhaling dramatically, “I am not flirting with you. At all. Zero. None. I just…really need to get laid tonight by my date, and saying stupid things is my coping mechanism. This is absolutely not flirting.”
I nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”
“And I do not find you attractive in the slightest.”
My mouth twitches. “That’s more like it.”
She grins at me.
“I mean it,” she adds, lifting her chin. “Not attracted. Not even a little. I see you and feel nothing. Zero. Way too young.”
“Mhm.”
“Complete emotional neutrality.”
“Good.”
“You could be a lamp,” she says.
I laugh. “A lamp?”
“A floor lamp,” she clarifies. “Very tall. Provides warm lighting. But a lamp.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “This is the least professional conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”
She shrugs. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You said boundaries.”
“Yes. And this—” I gesture between us “—is not boundaries.”
“Well,” she says cheerfully, “at least I’m dressed professionally.”
I glance down at her outfit again.
My heart does another stupid jump.
“Right,” I say weakly. “Very professional.”
She beams. “So…ready to train me, Lamp Man?”
I groan. “Please don’t call me that.”
