the sink and plunge my sticky hands under the water. “I keep a couple of extras for emergencies.”
"It's not far," he says with a shrug. "I don't really care."
"You look like you're starring in a b-grade slasher film," I point out. "And you'll smell like a fruit pop."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." He gives me a silly wink, and my achy little heart thumps wildly. Can you still ask a man out after you spill red goo all over his pecs?
“Come on,” I say, brushing past him to get to my tiny office. “I’ll wash that shirt this weekend, okay? Maybe I can even get the stains out. Take it off.”
Yeah baby! my hormones cry. Take it all off.
Down, girl.
By the time I get my hands on an extra-large shirt and turn around, Gunnar is standing there in the hallway, shirtless.
Holy shit, my hormones whisper. We already know about the muscles. But we had no idea about the tattoos. Gunnar's chest is decorated with an elegant vine that climbs asymmetrically across his ribcage. My gaze traces its stem from one side of his waistline, up his stomach muscles, and finally across his pecs. And in the center of it, there’s an old fashioned key looped into the tendrils.
It’s beautiful.
“Had your fill, yet?” Gunnar asks quietly. “Can I put the shirt on now?"
Oh dear. I’m suddenly conscious of my open jaw, where my tongue is practically hanging out. I thrust the shirt at Gunnar. “Sorry. Here you go. Can you have dinner with me tonight?” I blurt.
Oh, crap, my hormones say. That’s our bad. Sorry about the awkward timing.
Gunnar's hands freeze in the midst of pushing through the arm holes of the shirt. When his face reappears through the neck hole, it's wearing a wince. “Hell, Posy. I can't. I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to.”
“I’m sure you're busy, no big deal,” I rattle off.
“There's something I have to do tonight. A favor for a friend.”
“Yup. Of course you do.” I want to die now.
“Look,” he rests one powerful arm against the door frame. “It would be a bad idea anyway. Not that it isn't tempting. Because we wouldn't stop at dinner.”
I gulp.
“You're the boss. And I'm just a bad bet.”
We love bad bets! my hormones shriek.
“I understand,” I say. Then I pull myself up to my full height and make my face as impassive as possible. “Have a lovely day off. I'll see you on Sunday, okay? Rest up for the brunch crowd.”
“Right,” he says, tilting his head to study me with those pale green eyes. “You have a great Friday night.”
I give him a wave, because it’s either that or admit that my Friday night is going to be pretty lonely. Gunnar steps out of view. I hear him gather his backpack and his jacket and let himself out the door.
I just stand there for a minute, breathing. And I remind myself that this was good practice. In the unlikely event that I meet another man who's even half as appealing as Gunnar, I'll do better next time.
Then I go out front and lock up, pulling down the security gate—the one that Gunnar found for me, damn it. He's a better man than I ever guessed. He's a great employee. But he doesn't want me. Maybe he can sense that I'm not that much fun. That I don't know how to walk the naked path of joy. Maybe he could tell just from a few kisses.
Or maybe I'm being a psycho right now and beating myself up over nothing. The man has plans, and he doesn’t want to bang his boss.
I double check the locks on the front and back doors. Then I order myself to go upstairs and plan a little fun for tonight, no matter what. Except Ginny and Aaron are at a kindergartener’s birthday pizza party, so my two sidekicks are unavailable.
Since I refuse to sit home alone, I change into a short skirt, grab a book, and then take myself out to the same bar where I ran into Gunnar two weeks ago. I sip another of Jerome’s special cocktails and try not to think about a certain hot barista with a tattooed chest.
Maybe it’s my lucky night, because there's another guy down the bar who's eyeing me as I read. He's attractive in a very ordinary way. As I turn the pages of my book, I try to imagine flirting with him.
But, nope. It doesn't take. The book turns