I tap my keyboard too fast. “It’s warm in here.” I tug at my collar. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees.” She tilts her head. “And you’re right outside Franklin's office. There’s literally a draft.”
“Guess I’m hot-blooded.”
Her smile saysSure, Jan. Then she’s gone.
I blow out a breath. Okay. No big deal. Greg works in IT. I work in BR for Franklin Frost, our fearless leader. Entirely different spheres. If I can hold it together and not break anything with a circuit board, there's no reason for him to show up again.
Rule #1: No crossing boundaries.
Rule #2: No thinking about his hands. Or his lips. Tusks. Stomach. Abs. Chest. Those pierced nipples.
Rule #3: Definitely no thinking about the way he?—
“Hey, you got a minute?”
I nearly fall out of my chair.
Franklin stands at the edge of my desk, ice cubes clicking softly in the cup clenched in his enormous, fur-dusted hand. He’s already shed his suit jacket—probably from overheating—and looks like he’s powered through three meetings and a snowstorm before 9:00 a.m.
“Yeah! Sure!” I blurt, too fast, trying to hide my panic behind my monitor.
He chuckles. “You okay, Sean? You look like a kid caught sneaking cookies.”
“Totally fine. Just… busy.”
He leans against my desk, and the ambient temperature drops a few degrees. “Good to hear. I wanted to check in—how’s the new IT patch working out? Lance and Greg have been making the rounds, helping folks transition.”
The name hits me like a defibrillator paddle.
“Oh, uh, yep,” I manage. “All good. System’s great. Perfect. No complaints.”
Franklin grins. “Glad to hear it. Greg’s a good guy. Really helpful, right?”
I try to drink my coffee to hide my expression but immediately choke on it. The coughing fit that follows feels biblical.
Franklin frowns. “You sure you’re allright?”
I wave a hand, eyes watering. “Wrong pipe.”
“Sure. Happens to the best of us.” He straightens. “Anyway, glad Greg’s been helpful.”
Yeah, he was helpful alright. His strong hand helped my raging boner until I came harder than I have in… forever. In the server room. At work.
I make a noise that’s probably supposed to be agreement but sounds like I’ve swallowed my own tongue.
“Good talk,” Franklin says, clearly deciding I’m a lost cause. “Keep up the fine work, Rivers.”
The second he’s gone, I drop my head to my desk and groan.
So much for subtlety.
I try to focus on work, really I do, but my brain’s still frozen from last night. After the fifth reread of an email, I catch it—pubic engagement. Not public. Pubic. Great. Nothing screams professionalism like a Freudian typo.
Around noon, my printer starts clicking like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code. No, sir. I ignore it. I’m not taking the bait.
Then a low, familiar voice says, “Are you ignoring your printer, Sean?”
