lifts her head and sits up straighter. “What time is it?”
We lost track of it a while ago.
I tap my phone. “Shit, it’s almost nine.”
“Almost nine? Dang! I’ve never stayed this late.” She stretches, her elbow brushing my side, ponytail swishing.
It kicks up the scent of her shampoo, and I sneak a whiff.
“You really have to stop sniffing me—it’s weird.”
“I…” Do I bother denying it? I decide no. Change the subject. “I’ve been gone forever—I have to let the dog out, and play with him,” I groan. “He’s going to be a maniac.”
We gather our dinner, stacking cartons on the desks, cups and bowls.
“Poor guy.”
And poor me—I’m going to be up all damn night with him. Humphrey might be low-hanging fruit, aka low to the ground and built like a Tonka Truck, but he has energy to spare, especially when he’s been home sleeping all day.
I hadn’t planned on being at the office so long, and now little dude is going to be stir crazy, not to mention he’s going to have to piss, if he hasn’t peed in the house already.
Shit.
Peed or shit.
That would be a crappy ending to an awesome day, pun intended.
“Thanks again for dinner, Phillip.”
Goddamn if I don’t love the way she says my name. Casually, with a hint of…something I can’t put my finger on. A flirty little subtext I can’t describe.
Thanks again for dinner, Phil-lip.
“And thank you for keeping me company.” Spencer hesitates, unsure. “It was…nice.”
There’s that word again.
Nice.
“How are you getting home?” I ask, tossing the cartons in the garbage can then placing it in the hallway.
Her ponytail swishes. “The train? I live about ten blocks away. Near Station Twelve.”
Huh. I’m near Station Twelve, too. “I’m about ten blocks.” Nine to be exact, but close enough. “Share a ride? It’s late—let’s not take the train. Plus it’ll be quicker, and I’ve gotta bust it home.”
Also, I want to spend more time with her.
Sue me.
“Sure, we could share a ride.” I swear she’s blushing again. “Want me to…” She wiggles her phone in the air.
I hold mine up and flash the already active ride app. “I got it.”
Yup, she’s definitely blushing.
12
Spencer
Our ride is a tiny, black hybrid with room enough for three, and when it pulls up to the curb outside our glossy high-rise of an office building, Phillip lunges forward to get the door. Pulls it open and gestures.
“Ladies first.”
I smile as I scoot past him, grateful he isn’t the type to sit in front with the driver—I want his attention. I don’t want him sitting in the passenger seat making small talk with the guy driving.
Phillip’s laptop bag divides the back seat and he confirms our two locations, glancing at me. “You’re on Brady?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“I’m on Central.” Just two blocks over—in city terms, that’s as good as being next door.
“Who knew?” My whole body glows with an unexplained happiness I know I shouldn’t be feeling—this is not a date. He is not my boyfriend. He does not like me.
We work together.
But.
The chemistry…
I know the ride won’t last long; I’ve done it enough times—twenty minutes tops, and that’s during rush-hour traffic. It’s after nine right now, so it’s practically a ghost town on these side streets our driver begins navigating through, passing townhouses and apartments.
I’m in an apartment, above a townhouse, four stories up. Real talk: I live in an attic. Real talk: the pigeons and occasional dove on my window ledges drive me freaking insane, especially when they shit all over, leaving things a mess. I hate seeing the bird turd as much as I loathe being woken up at the butt crack of dawn on a day I can sleep in.
Damn birds.
In companionable silence, we weave up and down streets. Pretty, tree-lined streets with families tucked away inside.
Our car hangs a right near my neighborhood. Slows.
“My place is up here on the left.” Phillip leans forward to explain. “The one with the hedges and black fence.”
Well la-di-da—isn’t he fancy.
In reality, I’m shocked by this new development. Phillip is younger than I am; the fact that he is more established domestically chafes a little as we pull up to his house.
It’s a lovely brownstone; had to have cost a bundle. I wonder where he got the money, speculating that it must have been an inheritance. Or risky investment that paid off.
Phillip is twenty-eight—how does he own a house in the city?
“I love it,” I say, leaning forward so I can gaze out the window at the brick building with its tidy