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“Believe me, I’m not feeling harassed.” And the sudden drop in his tone, to a richer, fuller octave even he couldn’t miss, likely proved his point.
Maxi flinched. Her legs squeezed tight again. Her breath hitched.
Ha! There it was!
He really did spark something inside her.
Fascinated by
her and the topic on deck, even if it did make adrenaline pump in places that weren’t exactly couth to experience during the workday, he asked, “So you don’t fully believe in nonphysical relationships between men and women who are friends? What about the males employed by Staci Kay?”
She gave a small shrug. “I wouldn’t consider them friends. We’re teammates. Colleagues. Associates. Whatever. Do we go to happy hour from time to time? Sure. As a group. But I don’t hang out with any of them alone, socially. It’s always about work.”
His look was pointed as he said, “We’re colleagues having lunch together, but we’re not talking about work.”
Maxi washed down another bite with her soda. Waving the cup in one hand and her sandwich in the other, she said, “Totally different.”
“How so?”
“First, we’re in my office, not at a restaurant or a bar or anyplace that could be considered social. Second, we’re supposed to be getting to know each other. For business-related purposes.”
He stared at her for a few seconds. Her chest rose and fell faster than normal, he noted. Shallow pants of air escaped her parted lips. No mistaking she was a bit revved, a bit breathless.
Ryan was a genius in several areas. Mostly mathematics and quantitative research. He was a fact collector who thrived on resolutions. Had an IQ well over one-sixty.
His specialty was not the female persuasion. He’d proven that just recently when he’d allowed Elizabeth to jerk him around until she’d ripped his heart from his chest and had stomped all over it with her teeny-tiny, two-inch-heeled, pointy-tipped Louis Vuitton shoes.
Yet he recognized an aroused woman when he saw one.
So he challenged Maxi. Instinctively surmising she wouldn’t back down.
“If you spend, let’s say for purposes of this discussion, fifty hours a week—at work—with someone of the opposite sex that you find attractive,” he paused a moment to see if she’d balk at the new course in which he took the conversation. When she didn’t, only quirked a brow at him with intrigue and perhaps a tinge of anticipation, he continued. “And you spend, oh, one night out for dinner and drinks during the week with someone you don’t work with but are seeing socially, and maybe a weekend night and into the next day—if the relationship has a sexual component—that time shared might accumulate to—”
“Wait, I’m sorry.” She swung an arm in his direction, with the remainder of her sandwich still in hand. “Sexual component?” Both eyebrows jumped this time. “Are we talking about lab rats here, or actual human beings with raging hormones?”
Ryan pushed at the bridge of his glasses to hitch them up his nose a notch. Not dismissing the fact that he was muddying waters by bringing intimacy into their exchange, yet unable to stop himself. Maxi easily ignited his inquisitive nature. Stimulated it beyond all belief, to be exact.
“We’re discussing people, of course.”
“Huh,” she mused with a playful smile. “’Cause you’re making me think in scientific terms here, Doc.”
“Hilarious,” he deadpanned at the moniker she’d used. “Point being, at the intervals I’m utilizing for this hypothesis, you might end up spending approximately twenty-six hours a week with someone you’re romantically interested in—not married to, living with, or seriously dating, mind you—versus the fifty hours you spend with someone you’re not romantically involved with. Which would conclusively indicate that you are more attuned in a more in-depth capacity at concentrated levels to the person you work with versus the person you have dinner and occasional sexual relations with—correct?”
Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. Then flew open. Her mouth worked vigorously like a fish attempting to dislodge a hook stuck in its throat—or maybe she thought she had a rebuttal, but couldn’t quite form the full concept in her head.
Ryan waited patiently as she grappled with her internal ruminations.
“I’m sorry,” she finally repeated, pinning him with an intent look. “I’ve completely forgotten what we were originally discussing.”
“The theory of platonic friendship.” His gaze swept her office, landing on the framed whiteboard mounted to a portion of one wall. He stood. “Let me diagram it out for you—”
“No!” she blurted.
His body jolted at her forcefulness. Jolted in a good way. “No?”
“No.” She set her sandwich aside and got to her feet, gazing deep into his eyes. “No diagramming, extrapolating, analyzing. No low-hanging fruit here, Doc.”
She rounded the desk. Planted her hands on her hips. “Carnal compatibility isn’t about studies and measurements and quantum-fucking-physics. When two people are hot for each other, Ryan, they’re just that—hot for each other!”
