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Isthat what I meant?
Guys with his demeanor always seem one step away from a snarky comment that can cut deep despite a joking tone. Still, I have to admit, Cole and I might trade jokes, but he’s never said anything truly at my expense.
I feel comfortable around him. My vulnerable underbelly is safe in his hands. Which is strange, and I’m not sure I like myself slipping into that comfort.
That still doesn’t mean I can make him out to be a douche when he hasn’t been one.
“No. I know you don’t. I’m just stressed.”
His frown softens, and he leans forward into my office even as his feet stay just outside the jamb.
“About what?”
After a bracing breath, I admit, “In a few weeks, I’m going to be presenting at a library conference. But I’m terrified of public speaking.”
There. It’s out. The upbeat librarian falls to pieces when she is in front of a room that surpasses double-digit occupation.
Cole watches me, and I want to know what’s going on behind his icy eyes.
Instead of asking, I pick up a stack of books on my desk, straighten them, then put them back down. My hands want to fidget. They reach for my script, rolling the papers, unfurling them, folding some corners, smoothing them out. Anyone who comes to my presentation is going to see a sweaty woman gone temporarily mute, who can’t stop jerking around like a puppet detached from a couple of important strings.
“I’ll help.”
“You will?” I step up to him, fighting the urge to step into him. To wrap my arms around his trim waist.
“What do you need?” His voice has gone low.
I need you to close my office door and ravish me.
Wait, when did my vagina develop the ability to form thoughts?
“I need a practice audience. Come to a conference room with me?” The one with big glass windows and almost no privacy.
Cole steps back, gesturing that I should lead the way. Once settled in the conference room, me by the projector, Cole at the opposite end of the table with my phone in front of him, keyed up to play false applause, I start at the beginning.
Two run-throughs and close to an hour later, I’m steadier and speaking fine without my script. But I’m uncertain my problem has been truly solved.
“Feel better?” Cole asks.
“I guess.” Damn it. That sounds ungrateful. And after Cole has sat with me for a good chunk of time when he could easily have mutteredclementineand bowed out. “I’m sorry. Only, I’m still just talking to you. You’re one person. And I’m pretty sure you like me.”
Cole snorts, and I throw him a smirk, then sigh out my frustration.
“This just isn’t stressful enough. It’s not close enough to the real thing.”
Cole watches me, his tongue fiddling with his lip piercing. And now I want to jump him. But I’m at work, trying to solve a real problem.
“Do you wanna come by the shelter tomorrow?” His question throws me, the topic change so abrupt.
“Um, well I work tomorrow.”
“After work.”
I consider it. Getting to immerse myself in cute dogs and cats might not solve all my problems, but it does seem like an awesome stress reliever. My lips tug into a grin, and thankful warmth spreads through my chest. Cole might not be able to give me all the solutions, but at least he’s finding small ways to help.
“Sure. I'd like that.”
He stands abruptly, circling around the conference table. From the way he stalks toward me, I’m half worried, half excited that he’ll lift me onto the table and have his way with me. But when the tattooed temptation of a man reaches me, all I get is a quick kiss on the corner of my mouth.
