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“You goon,” I grumble. “C’mon, I need this. Hannah’s on a date with the Most Handsome Man Alive, and I’m tired of hopping every time my phone goes off.”
It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if the text I was expecting actually came through. The text from Greyson, that is.
Instead, I’ve run across the room and snatched up my phone for such important notifications as:
a) A pleasant memory of Anchovy frolicking in the sand two years ago
b) Some misplaced, misspelled spam for Viagraa
c) A Nigerian prince offering me $1,000,000,000,000 if I would only give him my bank account information, seven Google Play cards and my grandmother’s address.
It’s stupid. I know how this can go. Greyson is my boss. Nothing can happen.
And yet, so much has happened already.
Part of me was sure that our exotic, crazy-hot affair was linked to the exotic place we were in, that it’d fizzle out once we got back here. But the hot sex and sweet night we had on the rooftop, the wild sex and chemistry we felt in the office—I feel more attracted to him now, if anything.
Ugh! Why is it the one man I want is the one I can’t have?
I’m about to sit down in frustration when I notice that Anchovy is pulling on the leash, apparently now finally ready to get going on our field romp.
“About time,” I mutter.
I’m glad for a distraction, and Anchovy is probably the cutest distraction alive: the way he bounds down the pathway happily, stopping every so often to scrutinize an odd-shaped rock or a tasty-looking ant. He’s so distracting that I only realize on the third ring that the ringing is actually coming from my phone. I get out my phone just in time to see the call end. The call from Greyson.
“Shit.”
Next second, though, he’s calling again.
“Ooh, two calls in a row, is this an emergency?” I joke, picking up.
“Depends on your definition of emergency.”
“What’s yours?”
“I want to see you. Now, if you can.”
“What—I’m supposed to drop everything and come to you? You gave me quite the brush-off today, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Is office sex your definition of a brush-off?” he asks drily.
“No, you know I meant after.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Just that close call with Madeline rattled me. And I knew if I spent any more time in that locked room with you, I wouldn’t be able to help myself again.”
“Fine,” I say, pretending like his answer hasn’t made my smile as big as I am.
“Where are you?” he continues, “I can come meet you.”
“What if I have plans?”
“Tonight can work too.”
God, this man is insatiable. But in a good way.
“Sorry,” he says. “Forget it.”
“What?”
“I’m being pushy. You have your own life. You don’t owe me anything.”
“OK…”
My gaze wanders to Anchovy, who’s currently amusing himself with a spiky stick.
“Well?”
“Well what?” I ask.
He takes a breath. “Let’s start over. I’d like to see you now or later tonight. Or later this week, if you’re free. Does that work for you?”
I pretend to think about it, although I’m smiling, ready with my answer all the while. “Hmm… let me see… how about: yes, yes and yes. Does that work for you?”
“That works great for me.” The smile in his voice makes me smile bigger. I feel like an idiot. A silly-stupid, crazy-happy idiot. “Where should I meet you?”
“Well,” I say doubtfully, “I am walking Anchovy right now…”
“Sounds good. Where?”
“We’re in the middle of Bynaural Park, but we’ll probably stop by the rest station for Anchovy to get a bite to eat in about 15.”
“I’ll meet you there in 30.”
Although he really gets here in 25, with a wicker picnic basket to boot.
“What’s this?” I say with a little laugh.
He’s dressed in a fitted plain black t-shirt and jeans, and he looks just as handsome as he does in a suit.
“I figured since it’s almost dinnertime, and the caramel corn was on sale, why not have a picnic?”
I tip open the lid of the basket. “You didn’t…”
He did. Three bags of delicious-looking caramel corn, and what looks to be a fresh baguette, with ham, cheese and a fresh basket of strawberries too.
Right now, Greyson’s attention is otherwise occupied, though. Crouching down, he’s trying to get the attention of Anchovy, who’s currently gobbling down his favorite meat snack that I bought him.
“Believe me,” I tell Greyson, “Nothing short of his tail on fire will distract my little furry friend when he’s in Food Heaven.”
Still, Greyson gives Anchovy a little pat with the pad of his thumb.
“Are you trying to ingratiate yourself to me through my ferret?” I ask.
Raising himself upright, Greyson just smiles. “Is it working?”
I give him a quick kiss. “Maybe.”
The next few minutes go by in a whirr: our hunt for the perfect picnic spot, Greyson finding it right beside a tranquil pond and a massive willow. Next thing I know, we’re sitting, eating, passing the baguette back and forth, while Anchovy gobbles up our crumbs.
