He’s chuckling as he approaches me. “Aren’t you worried you might be missing out on something?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Missing out?”
“By writing off half the male population.”
I laugh, dry and caustic. “IknowI’m not missing anything. Unless intolerance, small-mindedne—”
The words die on my lips as Ben takes another step toward me, so close I have to tip my head back to look up at him. This is an invasion of my personal space.What is he doing?
“You’re sure about that?”
He’s standing way too close—like arms-brushing-against-mine close. I’m reminded of middle school dances:Leave enough space between you for the Holy Spirit.Ben is flouting the Almighty.
“You don’t think you couldeverbe attracted to someone on the other side?”
Ah.I see what he’s up to now.
I should step back. I should slap him, frankly. But a larger part of me wants to see where he’s going to take this—or maybe,how farhe’s going to take this.
“I was thinking you might want to...” He trails off, his voice dropping in both tone and volume, as he leans in further.
I should definitely take a step back now. Make a joke—ha-ha, nice try, you’ve made your point—but it suddenly feels very important, verynecessary, to stand my ground. Beat him at his own game.
“Want to what?” I ask brazenly, meeting his gaze head-on. My voice sounds funny now too, hoarse and a little thready.
His eyes flare slightly at my boldness, a flash of approval lighting his features. Like he’s proud of me for meeting him halfway. Like it was a test and I passed.
And that knowledge pleases me way more than it should.
“Want to...”
He drops his mouth to my ear, and his breath on my neck gives rise to a fine layer of goose bumps entirely out of place in this warm sun. I turn my head and the slight movement brings our faces in line, our mouths mere inches from each other. Seconds tick by as we stare at each other in a charged deadlock.Who will break first?
“Want to... race me to the Washington Monument. Go!” he yells suddenly and takes off at a sprint, and I nearly reel backward from the sudden loss of him.
Whoa.
Ben takes advantage of his head start, widening his lead as I trail slowly behind, wondering what the hell just happened.
What I don’t let myself wonder is why I’m already short of breath when I’ve barely started running.
Chapter 8
It’s been several days since our close encounter on the Mall and I haven’t run into Ben once—but that doesn’t mean I haven’t seen him.Oh, have I seen him.
Per my “request,” he’s left his blinds open and it is absolutely unhealthy how much I’ve enjoyed watching him. Not that I’ll let him catch me stalking—I’ve perfected the one-eye-on-my-computer, one-eye-on-the-window maneuver—but I think he must know I’m surveilling him because he propped a massiveTAX REFORMsign in his window. I’m certain it’s for my benefit.
My round-the-clock stakeout has netted me some nifty intel. He paces when he’s on the phone, so much so that watching him circuit his office makes me dizzy. His typing posture is so deplorable, I’m surprised he’s not a hunchback. He fiddles with his tie constantly. He drinks from one of those refillable water bottles all day long, and each time he takes a swig and wipes his mouth, my throat goes dry. Once when he was on the phone he smiled a lot, which simultaneously pleased and annoyed me. He never looks my way—or at least, I’ve never caught him.
I know he was just messing with me on our run, trying to prove a point, but that hasn’t stopped me from obsessing over his actions and myreactions—or rather, mylackof a reaction. Why did I just stand there like a pillar of salt? I should have kneed him in the groin. And the worst part is, he knows he rattled me—when I finally caught up to him, I was monosyllabic for the remainder of our run. I blamed a lack of oxygen, but there’s no way he was fooled.
I can’t let him gain the upper hand like that again. The only problem is, my body’s not getting the memo my brain is sending. Each time I leave my office or approach an elevator, a frisson of anticipation zaps through my body like the current from a lightning strike. I’m sixteen again, an obsessive schoolgirl tracking her crush in the hallways. I’ve wracked my brain, trying to recall the bits and pieces of his schedule I know, but the thing I can’t figure out is if I’m trying to run into him or avoid him. I wonder how he’d react if he knew I was mentally mapping his route like Magellan.
I’m currently hotfooting it over to Union Pub for a happy hour in honor of Tessa and Luke, who—surprise!—got engaged over the weekend. When I walk in, it’s wall-to-wall humanity, packed as ever with the postwork Capitol Hill crowd. Suit jackets have been cast off and sleeves rolled up, bottles of beer in hand while classic rock blasts from the speakers. I scan the room and spot Tessa immediately, standing in the center of a group and showing off her ring.
Once I wrestle my way through the crush of bodies and greet her, I glance around. “Where’s Luke?”
“Fighting the masses at the bar.” She waves a hand in that general direction and I feel a pang of self-pity. How nice to have someone to slay the proverbial dragon for you in pursuit of a cocktail.
