Page 44 of Elevator Pitch

“But not the woman?” His eyes widen, as if puzzled by his suggestion.

I lower to my desk chair and tug off my ball cap, tossing it to my desk before rubbing the heels of my palms against my eyes. I sigh.

“I think that’s the trouble.” I glance up at Kip. “I like her.”

Kip chuckles. “You like her? Like like-like her? Like you’re a couple of teenagers and not middle-aged adults? Come on, man.” Kip whines. “Find a better descriptor for your feelings.”

My brows hitch while I tip back in my desk chair. “Oh, are we doing that now? Sharing our feelings with one another?”

Kip scoffs. “Don’t be a dick, Davis. You haven’t liked a woman since Patty.”

I tip forward in my chair and brace my forearms on the desktop. “Tread carefully, Garcia,” I warn him in return.

“Look, fucking the supermodels might be fun for a while.” He grunts. “But that shit gets old, because we’re getting old. And even though Chandler was hot, she was cold.”

“Speak for yourself about age, old man,” I tease.

“Act your age. An adult.”

Kip isn’t wrong. Chandler only cared about herself, and her temperament ran to the extremes. She could appear playful and spontaneous and yet act distant and reserved. Somewhere in between was the sex.

And dammit, I hated that I’d admitted to Vee the other night that sex had been a focus of my relationship with Chandler. I didn’t want Vee thinking I used women.

Chandler for sex. Vee for superstitious sleeping arrangements.

Still, I wasn’t giving much of an impression that I’d want anything more with a woman. Right now, I don’t have time for more. I’m still too new to the team and need my eyes on the ball, not off in la-la land, daydreaming about a spunky author writing kinky plotlines.

Although she never did confirm that she wrote that particular book.

Anyway, I understand what Kip is trying to impart. Be a grown up.

“I honestly can’t think of any other way to describe my feelings. She’s the writer.” I simply like her. Not poetic or romantic or frilly verbiage. I just like her.

I chuckle to myself, recalling how she called me out on not being verbose the other night. When I hadn’t typed more than one word in a responding text to her. Patty would sometimes complain I wasn’t in touch with my emotions. I was goal-driven instead. Win.

My boys certainly felt the absence of my feelings, as I struggled after Patty’s death to deal with my grief and balance theirs at nine and eleven years old. I made a lot of mistakes.

“So, she’s a writer,” Kip singsongs, wiggling his brows. “Anything I’ve read.”

I remember her questioning me when I’d asked her the same thing. “Do you read romance?”

He gasps like I’ve shot him through the heart. The shocked expression on his face looks more like an admission of guilt than a pained accusation.

“Do you?” I question again, leaning forward once more, reminding myself I need to look up her books.

Kip glances nervously to his left. “I’ve been known to indulge in one or two.” His voice remains steady while his confidence waffles. His cheeks tinge pink. “Women like that.”

“Like what?” I ask, like I’m not well-versed in women.

“When you take an interest in them. Do what they do or read what they read. Hell, they especially like it when you read what they read to them.”

A minute passes while I process what he’s explained. Then I scoff while leaning against the arm of my chair. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

“Maybe you should try it. You’re finally with a woman your own age. A woman you like,” he drones. “Might be more fun than you expect.”

With that, Kip turns on his heels and exits my office, leaving me feeling a little chastised and a tad hurt.

And I’m not certain which emotion lines up with what. The growing older jab, or the lack of interest poke, or the fact that I’m out of practice at being romantic.