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God help me.
The doors ping open and I step out, my nose filling with the rich, familiar scent of brewing coffee. My lifeline. I make my way to the coffee machine, pouring myself a steaming cup of the bitter brew.
I take a sip, the hot liquid scalding my tongue.
"Fuck."
The sharp sting makes me wince. "Damn it, Bailey," I mutter to myself, setting the cup down.
Turning around, my heart leaps into my throat.
There he is, leaning against the door frame. Logan. His shirt hugs his body in all the right places, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed arms. His hair, tousled and wild, looks like he's just rolled out of bed.
Damn it, Logan.
I feel a familiar flutter in my stomach.
"Hey, Bailey," he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
There's that stupid smirk.
He strolls over, grabbing a cup of coffee for himself.
All the warnings from Atwood come rushing back.
Keep it professional, Bailey.
But how can I be professional when Logan looks like he walked out of a GQ magazine?
Screw professional, Bailey, go for it.
No, I can't. I have to maintain my poker face.
But his shirt...I shake my head, trying to distract myself.
Think about sales. That's safe, neutral ground.
"Logan," I manage to say. "Nice weather we're having."
Smooth, Bailey. Very smooth.
His lips curve into an amused smile at my attempt to deflect. "Nice weather? That's the best you can do, Bailey?" He leans on the counter next to me, his arm brushing against mine. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me.
"Logan." His proximity is distracting, too distracting.
"Bailey," he counters, mimicking my serious tone. But his eyes, those mesmerizing eyes, are full of mischief. He takes a step closer.
The space between us is diminishing. Every breath I take is laced with him. His presence is overpowering.
He raises a hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my skin a moment too long. I swallow, my heart pounding against my ribcage.
"Bailey," he says again, softer this time, almost a whisper. He's so close now, his breath fanning across my face. His gaze drops to my lips, the playful smirk now replaced with an intense look.
"Just give in," he murmurs. The words hang in the air, a challenge, a request, a plea. The tension between us is palpable.
I stare at him, his eyes holding mine captive. And in that moment, as though drawn in by a force bigger than us, our lips meet. It's a collision of pent-up desire and emotions, a deep, passionate kiss that leaves us both breathless.
Oh, I'm definitely pushing my boundaries, Mr. Atwood.
