“About that…”
My gut clenches. “No. We’re working.”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I wanted to—fuck. Not my best moment, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”
My skin tingles. The memory of his touch burns through me. I cross my arms, willing my pulse to calm the hell down. Whatever this feeling is, it ends. Now.
“You want to discuss this? Fine.” My hands clench, nails digging into my palms. “The ‘whoops my hand went rogue’ boob grab. The ‘almost’ kiss at the pool thatyoustarted and then flaked.”
I let out a sharp breath.
“I’m aware of what you’re doing, Hartwell. Getting in my head. Rattling me. Making me think you’re attracted to me.”
My jaw tightens.
“You’re trying to seduce me to win the promotion.”
He starts to speak, but I cut him off. “I don’t need your games or your half-assed attention. When I want a man, I’ll get one who isn’t using my body as a stepping stone to a goddamn corner office.”
“You think I was gonna kiss you as a tactic?”
“I think you’ll do anything to win. And the fact that you let Reece Dare crown you the golden boy of the Books for Every Block campaign proves you’re scarily good at it.”
Silence crackles in my headset.
“We both know I designed the framework that made that campaign go viral. You stood there, nodding along while everyone praised your ‘brilliance’. Like you had anything to do with it. Like you’ve ever touched a backend strategy in your—”
“Ivy—”
I don’t stop.
“And spare me the smolder routine. The ‘look how handsome I am, look how big my muscles are, especially the one in my pants.’”
“Ivy—”
“I’m not stupid. Or desperate. I see right through—”
“IVY! Eyes on Orson!”
I focus on the screen and watch physics and gravity ruin Orson’s life.
The strained rope pulls on Orson’s pants in slow motion, as if it’s savoring the moment. Until—
WHUMP.
Pantsed in public. Underneath: bright blue boxer briefs. Decorated with cartoon sea lions wearing tiny crowns.
And smack dab in the middle is the Washington Monument of erections.
The lawn goes silent.
“Oh my, that’s not good,” Orson says, trying to yank his shorts up with his taped flipper hands.
Repeatedly. Desperately. Hopelessly.
He may as well be trying to fold laundry with oven mitts.
And just when I think whatever higher power controls this dumpster fire can’t do any more damage… Blaze heroically lunges to help.
