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“Have you been outside today, Kitty Cat?” Barrett’s attractive mouth lifts on one side.
“Sure. I was outside before I walked through the front door this morning.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes my coffee and starts walking away from me.
“Wait!” Desperate for caffeine, I deplete my energy reserves catching up to his long-legged gait. He keeps walking, forcing me to follow him to the elevator.
He doesn’t turn over my cup of Pike Place until we’re sitting on a shaded bench at the grassy area across the street from headquarters. It’s gorgeous today. Sunny and, compared to the frigid, air-conditioned office, incredibly hot. But there’s a breeze on the air that warms my bare legs beneath the knee-length white-with-flowers dress I wore today.
After a heavenly sip of my coffee, I hum and lean heavily on Barrett’s shoulder. “I love you.”
He chuckles, low and rumbly. “Does that mean I’m getting closer to a kiss?”
“Not on your life.”
“Tough crowd.”
“What are you doing here anyway?” I sit up. “I figured you’d take the day off.”
“Mia sent edits for my column.”
I brighten. “Can I help?”
“Dying to see it, aren’t you?”
“No.” I’m a liar. I’m dying to see it.
“I have a lot of work to do on it and I couldn’t focus at home. Or in the car. Or at the park.” He offers me a wan smile.
“Are they that bad?”
“She’s right” is all he says.
“She usually is. They can’t be that bad.”
“Stop fishing. If I need a bailout, I will come to you first. Okay?”
“Okay.” I sag, defeated. “What are we doing out here if you have a bunch of work to do?”
“Procrastinating.”
“Where’s your coffee?”
“I drank it on the way to the office.”
We hold each other’s gazes. I like him like this. He’s slightly vulnerable and carefully honest. And he delivered a gift of coffee when I needed it the most. My favorite coffee.
“Thanks, Fox.”
He spreads his arms wide and rests them on the back of the bench. When I lean back with him he curls a hand around my shoulder.
“All part of the plan to get in your pants.”
I grunt in good humor rather than kicking him in the shin. This, I’m learning, is the most genuine part of him. The part that has been labeled the “bad boy” by the public is actually Barrett being Barrett.
“I’m immune to you,” I tell him. But when his fingers trail along the side of my neck, goosebumps lift to the surface of my skin. Electric tingles dance over my arms when he tunnels those fingers into my hair.
“Soft as I thought.” His voice is low bordering seductive. Then he pulls his hand from my hair and stands so abruptly I’m left sliding down the bench without a strong, firm torso to catch me. “Ready to go to work, Kitty Cat?”
