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“Actually, no,” she said around a low rumble of laughter. “If anything, I’m being ageist.”
“Why?”
“How old are you, Jed?”
“Twenty-five.”
His turn to look smug at the surprise on her face.
“What? You thought I was some twenty-one-year-old frat boy hitting on you?”
“I did,” she admitted.
“What was my sport? If you thought I was a newly graduated frat boy, what was my sport in college? Football?”
She licked her lips, seemingly amused by his question.
“Maybe tennis?”
“Tennis?” He stood from the chair he’d been sitting in and paced away from her.
“You don’t look like a football player.”
“Ouch.”
“Not to mention you work for me,” she reminded him. “I have a rule against office romance.”
“Romance,” he repeated as he crossed back over the floor to stand at his chair again. “So, you have thought about me.”
“We’ve known each other a few days,” she said simply. “A very busy few days, I might add. So, no, I haven’t.”
“We’re having dinner together.” He waved his hands in the air as if to indicate the pizza box and water bottles. “We’re almost done with our first date, Sloane. And I, for one, think it went really well.”
“I don’t date much.” She reached for a napkin from the table in front of her and wiped her hands and mouth as she stood. “I never date employees. I rarely date anyone. And you’re too young for me anyway.”
“I think we should go dancing,” he announced.
“I think you’re out of your mind.”
“How old are you?” He narrowed his eyes at her, pretending like he was trying to guess. “I mean, you might be right. Your choice in office music is bad. Feels old.”
“What?”
“What do you listen to when you work out? Same jazz?”
“No!” She tossed her napkin in the trashcan beside her desk and folded her arms over her chest.
“Well?” He tossed his hands out, palms up, expectantly.
“Yacht rock,” she said quietly.
He heard her, but he deliberated acted as if he misheard her. “Hard rock?”
“No.” She tipped her head back and laughed. “No. Yacht rock.”
“That’s for old people.”
“What do you listen to? Hip hop?”
