me, you’re gonna have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming,” I warn with a grin.
From here, it looks like Spencer is blushing—but I could be wrong. The sun is beaming in from behind her and the glare is blinding. “Aw, I’m sure your girlfriend would hate it if she heard you refusing to leave.”
Whoa.
Hold up.
Is she fishing for information? Is that her not-so-subtle way of asking if I have a girlfriend? Better bring the hammer down so she lowers her expectations.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, and I’m not looking for one.”
There. Too harsh, but also the truth.
“I wasn’t asking,” she lies prettily, avoiding my gaze to stare at her computer monitor. “I assumed you had one, so… Whatever.”
More food goes into my mouth. “Why would you assume I’m in a relationship?”
Spencer stops what she’s doing long enough to shrug, give me a glance, and bite down on her lower lip. “You look like the type.”
I look like the type?
Literally not a single person has ever said that about me—at least not to my face—and I doubt anyone ever will. Spencer Standish is full of shit and we both know it. I do not, in fact, look like the relationship type, and she was indeed fishing for information about me.
She knows I’m the consummate bachelor.
I know it.
I’m such a confirmed bachelor I have a blue velvet smoking jacket, for fuck’s sake. How douchey is that? A jacket I’m seriously considering having my initials embroidered on just to drive home my single status on the nights my friends and I wear them in public.
My fingers flex, itching to feel that fabric.
The jacket is with me at work.
Yeah. I brought it. Stuffed it into my laptop bag, folded into a neat little square, probably getting horribly wrinkled.
Shit. I should probably take it out of my bag so it’s not a mess by the time I need to wear it later tonight. It won’t do to be the only asshole at the meeting with a wrinkly jacket.
It would only make me look like an even bigger douche than I’ll already be.
Swallowing the granola in my mouth, I lean over and unzip my laptop bag, fingering the smooth, velvety square tucked inside. Grasp it and pull, giving it a little shake when it’s loose from the bag. Twist my body to hang it on the back of my desk chair, out of Spencer’s sight.
“What’s that?”
Too fucking late. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Why is she constantly watching me? Nosey little shit.
“I am working, but your desk is so close you’re constantly up my asshole. Forgive me for noticing when you take something out of your purse.”
Up her asshole? My purse?
What the…
Who talks like that? Spencer, apparently—that’s who.
Jeez, this girl is certifiable.
Not in an insane way, just—a pain-in-my-ass kind of way. Her saucy mouth is weirdly turning me on, and I hate it.
Fuck.
“How about you mind your own business for once?”
“Um, hello—need I remind you that this is my office?”
“Um, hello,” I repeat. “You’re incessantly reminding me that this is your office. And trust me, as soon as I get the green light, I’m so out of here.” I root around in the bag for more granola, stuff it in my mouth.
“You literally just got done saying they’d have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming!”
“I lied,” I lie.
“It’s not stopping you from enjoying the perks, though, is it? Freeloader.”
“Excuse me?” I ask through a full mouth of warm cookie.
A crumb chooses that moment to fall on my shirt, traitorous little bastard.
“If I’m so terrible, maybe you shouldn’t eat the lunch I bring you. And keep your mitts off my snacks.” She arches a brow and extends her hand in my direction across her desk. “Give that back.”
I shake my head, holding the baggie and the cookie to my chest. “No.”
“I said, give it back!”
“It’s mine. You gave it to me.”
“I gave it to you as a gesture of goodwill, and you don’t even appreciate it!”
So? I’m a guy—of course I appreciate her gesture, but I’m not going to get all gushy over it. I’m not a chick. I’ll only gush over amazing sex, and maybe a trip I don’t have to organize myself. Those are the only things that warrant a good slobbery gush-fest, and both almost never happen.
I shove more into my face, the granola falling down the front of my shirt the way Spencer’s chips did yesterday. “If you want this back, you’re going to have to come