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“A nerd, you mean,” I say. “I am. But it’s a mistake to think nerds follow the rules.”
“I want to know what you did, obviously.” Her eyes are shining, and she’s propped her elbow on the arm of the sofa closest to me. She’s leaning against it, her lips parted slightly, and her shirt is gaping enough that I can see the lacy edge of her bra.
I’m less than a foot away. I want to push my chair forward and kiss her. I want—
“Obviously,” I repeat. “But there’s that NDA I mentioned.”
Intelligence gleams in her eyes. “So, it has something to do with the place where you work.”
“Yes, and I’ve said too much already.”
She leans forward just a little more, and my eyes travel down the slope of her neck to her breasts, cupped in that insubstantial bit of lace, her flesh peeking through, warm and inviting and soft. I know because I touched it with my hands and mouth in that stolen moment. I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I didn’t want to do it again. I swallow against my dry mouth, which becomes drier when she smirks at me. “You just got done telling me you aren’t a rule follower.”
My pulse quickens, because I can feel things changing. There’s an invitation in her tone, and in the way she’s leaning forward. I don’t know where that invitation will bring me, but I’d like to tear open the envelope and find out. So I nod, just a slight movement, and say, “I’ll tell you this much. Someone fucked with my sister, and I didn’t like it. So I showed him that he wasn’t as almighty powerful and untouchable as he thought. It worked.”
“But you got caught?”
“I always intended to get caught. Not much of a message if he never found out who did it. I was a dumb kid, though. I didn’t think much about the price I was going to have to pay for taking him down a peg.”
She tilts her head, studying me, her lips still parted. “You’ve only made me more curious, you know.”
“Good.” I lean down and slide my shoes off with my good hand. “Maybe I like being a mystery to you. There’s nothing boring about a mystery. That’s why I can’t stop listening to those damn podcasts.”
She rolls her eyes. “I only thought you were boring before you broke your whole mild-mannered nice guy act.”
“Peoplelikethat act.”
“No one likes that act. It makes you seem much more forgettable than you actually are.”
“I don’t set out to be noticed. If people notice you, they expect things from you. They try to put you in boxes.”
She watches me for a long moment, her eyes intent, then says, “I’m starting to think there’s not a single box that would fit you. You’re too remarkable.”
I let the compliment wrap around me, easing into the parts of me that still want to find that box or recipe that will make me feel like I fit somewhere, before I respond, “Tell that to the elevator.”
She laughs, and I bask in it—and in the way it transforms all of her, her features tipping upward, her nose wrinkling, her breasts bobbing.
When her laughter dies, she says, “Speaking of the elevator…”
Blood drains down to my dick.
“Yes?”
She grabs the crutches lying across the floor and gets up. For a moment, I think she’s going to come to me. That she’s going to straddle me in this chair and make it my favorite for another reason, but then she makes her way to the open kitchen. She grabs something from the island, returning a moment later to hand me a little box.
“Your glasses have finally arrived,” she tells me as I take the box—a case—from her. She looks as excited as if a pair of plastic shields might actually transform me.
“Ah,” I say, “my Patrick Dozey glasses.”
“You remember his name,” she accuses without heat.
I incline my head. I do.
I open the box, revealing a pair of glasses with thin tortoise-shell frames. They’re unremarkable, which is just as well, and I can’t deny I like them better than the pair Ruthie chose for me.
“Are you going to put them on?” Mira asks in excitement.
“Why don’t you do the honors?”
