Page 3 of Faking It with her Crush

All around, people bustle around the office, chatting and laughing by the water cooler, or arguing on the phone. The air smells like carpet cleaner, warm paper from the printer, and strong coffee. It’s a bright day, and sunshine spears through the half-lowered blinds to cook us at our desks.

My chair squeaks as I spin around, snatching up my calculator and double-checking the numbers.

Ilovenumbers.

Numbers are concrete. Absolute. They tell a clear story, and if you can read them, you can make sense of the world.

This world, anyway. The world of accounts and spreadsheets and frazzled clients calling us on the phone, asking us to explain every single charge on their invoices. Numbers are armor.

I don’t even notice Darius until he clears his throat behind me. I whirl around, heart slamming, to find him leaning against my cubicle wall, stroking the stem a potted plant with a long, elegant finger.

The leaves shiver.

I do, too.

But my shoulders square, and I tamp down all those knee-jerk reactions I always have around this man: the fluttering pulse, the squirmy stomach, the heat climbing my throat. No time for that nonsense. I wrestle my body into submission and smile at my friend.

“Luce,” Darius drawls, brown gaze flicking to mine. “I think you need more plants.”

Ha. As if. With just one more pot squeezed into the explosion of greenery I’m building up in my cubicle, I could charge tourists for entrance.

“They’re relaxing.” My heart thuds beneath my blouse. “Plants lower our cortisol. It’s scientifically proven.”

Darius smiles as I yank off my glasses and polish them on my cardigan, wiping away this morning’s stress-smudges. “Clearly. Is everyone working you into the ground up here?”

“Yup.”

And the composer is a regular visitor in my cubicle—regular enough that I keep an extra chair for him, half-submerged in leaves—so I return to my work, fingers flying over the keyboard. He won’t be offended. Plants rustle as Darius slides past, sinkinginto his chair behind me, and damn it, I can’t focus with him back there.

His gaze is hot against the back of my neck.

The cedar scent of him makes me breathe faster, gulping down air.

And… I can’t think straight. The numbers all blur together.

So I throw up my hands and give up, turning to face Darius where he’s lounging, one ankle crossed over his knee.

“Don’t mind me.” His handsome face breaks into a smile, and oh, he’ssogood looking. It’s not fair to us mere mortals. Because some of us need to focus, damn it, and not make asses of ourselves in front of men who see us only as friends.

Friends.

It hurts being this close to a man who I dream about every night, and who is oblivious to me… but I can’t give Darius up. Even as only a friend, I’m addicted to him.

To his gentle humor and patience.

To his teasing glances and the coffee he brings me first thing every morning, always with some kind of warm pastry in a paper bag.

Not to mention his beauty and intelligence and the way he makes me feel moregrown up, somehow, like someone who should be taken seriously.

Yeah. I can’t quit Darius Amin. Not even when every rumor about him dating this receptionist or that intern makes my poor, bruised heart shrivel and ache. Not even when every flushed, sticky daydream I have about him makes me feel horribly guilty.

I mean, it’s not like I can help it. Believe me, if I could kill this crush, I’d snipe it in a heartbeat. I’d snap its neck, hit man style.

“Can I help you with something? Why are you hiding in my cubicle this time?” Tapping my chin, I pretend to think. “Let me guess. You winked and caused a stampede among the adminassistants, and now you’re hiding from all your admirers up here.”

Darius’s eyes twinkle, and he relaxes back in the chair. “You seriously overestimate my effect on women, Luce. Why is that, I wonder?”

Ugh. Where’s that stapler? I’ve found a new target.

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