Page 176 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Well,” she says, breathless. “That was . . . interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“I have notes.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m a woman of standards.”

“You kissed me back.”

“That will be reflected in the minutes.”

I almost smile.

Her mouth is still soft from mine. Her cheeks are flushed, and she is holding the notebook between us like a shield, which is ridiculous because I had my hands on her less than a minute ago and still know exactly how she sounds when she stops pretending.

I want to kiss her again.

Instead, I say, “We can go back to my place after your shift.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“. . . for the notes,” I add.

Her mouth twitches. “Ah. Very professional.”

“Extremely.”

“You often invite women home for administrative feedback?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

“That’s a small and elite group, I assume.”

“One member.”

Her smile falters by a fraction.

Outside the back room, Bea calls, “Daisy, if you’re done making deeply questionable professional choices, the pre-owned books man is back.”

Daisy closes her eyes. “I hate that he’s real.”

I pick up the notebook and hand it to her.

Her fingers brush mine.

This time, neither of us pretends not to notice.

The contact holds for one second too long.

Not enough for Bea to storm back here and accuse us of creating a hostile emotional environment.

Enough for Daisy’s breath to change.

“So,” I say, and I hate that I don’t sound sure of myself. I’m usually a decisive kind of guy. Hit the ice, read the play, make the move. “Maybe later tonight we can discuss the plan?”

Her gaze stays on our hands.