She raises a brow, but I hold my ground, even though my stomach tightens into knots.
“How is working for Jett? Still flirting with you?”
“I’m not sure he ever was in the first place.” My statement is met with a disbelieving scoff, but I power on. “But it’s…different than what I’m used to.”
The freedom and ability to build my schedule is wonderful. However, working for someone I also consider a friend is not a dynamic I’m used to.
“Different can be good,” she muses. “You could use something a little different, I think. Shake things up.”
“I like things the way they are.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Imostlylike things the way they are.
“Well, even if that’s true, try to have fun while you’re there.”
“It’s a work trip.”
“It’s Jett, not RogueWave. It’s afunwork trip. Let loose a little.” She scans my face, then says, “At least promise you’ll try.”
A heavy sigh deflates my chest.
There’s no way I’mletting loose,but I can have fun sometimes.
“Yeah, I’ll try.”
I have a feeling working with Jett means I have no choice in the matter.
Chapter 4
jett
Music blasts from the built-in stereo system, the bass rattling the house’s foundation. I sing along while I lay out the food I had delivered. Serving trays of fruit, various appetizers, and small desserts cover the kitchen island in a smorgasbord of deliciousness.
The doorbell cuts through the chorus, and I dance to the entrance, leaving behind the slow cooker of mini meatballsbegging to be skewered by a toothpick and popped into my mouth.
Sofía stands on my porch, a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a concerned look contorting her pretty face as I serenade her. Her long hair is pulled back into a tight Dutch braid, loose flyaway hairs framing her features.
My heart skips a beat when she shimmies past me and into the house, her shoulder grazing mine. The door clicks shut, and she spins, giving me a full view of her outfit.
“What are you wearing?”
“Good morning to you, too,” she says, examining her clothing. “A pantsuit?”
It’s not a simple pantsuit; it’s a bright-pink matching set with the business world’s modern-day version of hell: a blazer. She looks like Businesswoman Barbie.
There aren’t many hills I’d die on—mostly because things aren’t that serious—but I hate blazers. The way they constrict your arms. The bulky padding on the shoulders. How the buttons get all weird when you try to sit down.
I was forced to wear one to a wedding once, and I told myself never again.
What kind of boss would I be if I forced her to endure the same suffering? I’dneverrequire Doug or Molly to wear that.
“Are you running for Congress?” I tease, poking the fabric. “This is a blazer-free zone.”
“This is a work meeting.”
“I’m wearing sweatpants. It’s still a work meeting.”
She scans my body, and I have to suppress a shudder. I like when her eyes are on me—revel in how her focus makes my cells buzz with electricity.
