Inside, it’s minimalist and modern. Hardwood floors, mostly bare walls, a sleek leather sofa and a single chair. No TV. Big surprise there. The only signs anyone lives here at all are the single pair of running shoes by the door, a puzzle on the coffee table, and a pile of socks on the sofa.
I take my cue from his bare feet and the shoes by the door and slip out of my own low heels.
“You don’t have to do that,” he grumbles, frowning down at my feet.
“I don’t mind.” A lot of people don’t wear shoes in the house, so I’m used to being accommodating.
He makes a grumbly, dissatisfied noise. Like maybe my bare feet disgust him.
Yeah. That’s the Max Ramsey I know.
Clearly, I was momentarily blinded by the gleaming muscles.
“You can wear your shoes. It doesn’t bother me.”
Except now that I think my bare feet do bother him, there’s no way I’m backing down.
I give him a tight smile. “I’m okay.”
He glares down at me.
I even bob up onto my toes to show just how comfortable I am. And unfortunately, the bobbing-up-on-my-toes thing backfires.
Because we’re facing each other.
And standing close.
And for one horrible second it seems like I’m going to kiss him.
I mean, I’m not.
I absolutely do not intend to kiss him. Ever.
But the action is vaguely reminiscent of going up for a kiss and we both seem to realize it at the same moment. I stumble back. He lurches out of the way.
Then he winces, like he landed wrong on his bad leg.
Which says it all, doesn’t it?
The guy is so horrified by the hint of kissing me that he’d risk injury to escape.
I want to lick his abs, while the mere sight of me seems to repulse him. Just great.
On the bright side, licking his abs would be a horrible idea when we have to work together for the foreseeable future. So maybe I should be glad one of us is being logical.
“What do you want?” he asks, his tone low and gruff, like he spent his Saturday morning gargling battery acid.
I give a blithe shrug. “Same as everyone. World peace. The end of hunger. A cure for cancer.”
Clearly not amused by my answer, he says, “I meant, why did you come here?”
“Ah. I came here because I emailed you yesterday asking if we could get together this weekend to set up your social media. You didn’t answer. So I decided to follow up in person.”
“I didn’t answer because this weekend isn’t good. I’m busy.”
I look around the room pointedly. “You’re busy with . . .?” I trail off to give him a chance to answer. When he doesn’t, I supply, “Laundry and a puzzle?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but then snaps it closed when his phone rings.
