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Wyatt snorts beside me. “Ouch, Beck, what was that?
I ignore him, instead focusing on pouring the pinkish amber liquid into my glass, watching it froth.
“And also, what the fuck? That’s the fourth day in a row you’ve had beer at lunch.”
“And that’s a problem because…?”
His brows lift. “Because you drink scotch.” Examining the can, he asks, “Is this the same one Claire was drinking at the meeting?”
I pick up the empty can and turn it in my hands, pretending to read the label. I don’t. I already know what it says. Cherry Lane Brewing Company. Strawberry Grove. Sour Ale. Like Wyatt said, I’ve been drinking a lot of these this week. I’ve become a little too familiar with the label truth be told. “Hmm. So it is.”
He barks out a laugh. “You got it bad, buddy. Is that why you just blew off the waitress?”
“No I don’t.” I might. “And I didn’t blow her off.” Totally did.
“Yeah, okay, Beck. Ginger’s getting under your skin.”
“Nope. Girls don’t get under my skin.”
Yet the second my phone vibrates in my pocket, I whip it out, eager to see what Claire has to say in response to my most recent message. Lucky me, I’ve been graced with not one, but two replies from the fiery redhead.
Me: Can I trust you to keep it professional tonight? I know it’s difficult for you to keep your hands and eyes to yourself, Care Bear.
Claire Bear: Are you kidding me right now?!?!
Claire Bear: I want to punch you in that pretty little face of yours.
I huff out a laugh and start typing back.
Me: Already not off to a good start on the professionalism front. Swearing, compliments on my looks, and physical threats aren’t very professional. Maybe I should have a word with your boss.
My phone lights up with a picture of Claire’s middle finger, pretty pale blush polish donning her nail. I send her back a picture of my hand, wrapped around my glass of beer, the can sitting beside it.
Me: Are we sending pictures of our hands? Remember when I put these fingers between your luscious legs and touched your little strawberry?
Claire Bear: OMG! Now who’s being unprofessional?! And why are you drinking my beer? And don’t call my vagina a strawberry!
Me: Bet you taste just as fruity.
I can’t not do it. It’s just too easy. I love getting her all riled up, flirting, teasing. Keeping my hands off her tonight is going to be impossible.
Which is why I have no plans of doing that.
“Are you texting her right now?” Wyatt asks, leaning over the table.
“No.” I tug my phone into my chest. It’s a stupid fucking move because Wyatt stands up, reaches over, and rips my phone right out of my hands. “Give it back, fucker.”
I watch his face morph into one of pure amusement as he reads over our message thread. He shoves my phone back into my hands and sits down, shaking his head with a shit-eating grin. “You’ve met your match, Avery.”
“Mmm,” I murmur, maybe in agreement, maybe not, as I look down at my phone.
Claire Bear: Maybe I do, but you’ll never know. Too bad, so sad.
Game on, Claire Thompson. Game on.
The waitress slams my lunch down in front of me before stalking off.
“Well, I think I’ve ruined any chance I ever had there,” I say with a chuckle as I lift my beer to my lips.
