“I don’t know. I’m very busy and important.” I violently jerk my mouse to wake my computer.
“Kate...”
“What? You don’t know my schedule. It’s... packed.”
“Packed with what? TV shows?”
I glower at him. “I have a speech to write. I’m working on it right now.”
An ad starts blaring on the random webpage I’m on, exposing my bald-faced lie. I frantically click to mute it, but it’s too late.
His mouth curves into a smirk. “Tonight, then?”
“No.Over the weekend or something.”
“Saturday, then.” His chin lifts in defiance, and I can’t help but admire his jawline in profile. I hate myself.
“I didn’t saythisweekend.”
“Kate...”
“Fine, Saturday.”
“Good.” He taps his watch and heads for the door. “This will be a very eye-opening experience for you. I can’t wait.”
“I can. I can wait forever, in fact.”
He stops halfway out and turns, gripping the jamb on either sideand leaning back in.Muscles. Flexing.I grab a rubber band off my desk and snap it against my wrist. Definitely not painful enough.
“If you’re a good girl and go with a positive attitude, I’ll treat you to dinner after.”
My heart does a stutter-step. “You actually owe me two meals now.”
He snaps his fingers. “That reminds me.”
“What?”
The smile he throws me is blinding. “Thanks for lunch.”
Chapter 21
Saturday afternoon finds me standing in front of my closet, puzzling over something I never thought I would: appropriate gun-shooting attire. When I texted Ben for guidance, he told me to wear something comfortable that covered most of my skin—a rather alarming directive I don’t want to think too much about. I eventually settle on a pair of jeans, flat brown leather boots, and a cashmere V-neck sweater in a shade of blue that matches my eyes. I keep my hair loose and wavy and my makeup light, taking pains not to overdo it, but I can’t help it—I want to look good for him.
I want him tonoticeme.
When I’m done, I eye myself critically in the mirror. Not bad. This sweater is on just the right side of tight, the V deep enough to hint without screaming,Here are my boobs!I look put together, but not like I’m trying too hard.
Not like you’re secretly pining for him, you mean?
I wonder with simultaneous hope and trepidation if he’ll wear something green tonight. The guy has more green in his wardrobe than a leprechaun. Green sweaters, ties—I even noticed green socks one day. I think he’s doing it on purpose to embarrass me.
I get my answer before I even walk through the glass doors of his building: he’s wearing the Sweater.
More precisely, it’s the same green shirt-sweater he’d been wearing on the Night That Must Not Be Named. The sweater that clings to every muscle of his upper body like a second skin. The sweater I want to wrap myself in and huff until I’m high. It’s the sweater of all my Ben fantasies.
I take a deep breath as I walk in and wave casually, doing a passable job of pretending my stomach isn’t tied in knots. He gives me a once-over and visibly swallows. He looks... uneasy. So maybe he does notice what I wear—and likes it? The coil in my stomach loosens a bit.
“I told you to cover your skin.”
