This Changes Everything by Jennifer Ashley Page 0,28

she’s good. We don’t need Austin breaking her heart.

“Glad to have you on board,” I say neutrally.

“Likewise,” Austin says.

Mom gives Austin a look. He touches two fingers to his forehead in salute and moves to his office.

Ben emerges from his dark den, head bent over the tablet in his hand. He moves purposefully toward the front desk, eyes on whatever the hell is so important on his device.

“Ben will set up your computer,” Mom says to Erin. “He’ll get you logged in and explain our phone and message system. Ben, this is Erin.”

Ben drags his attention from his fascinating tablet and lands it on Erin. She smiles.

He stops. He goes so completely still his fingers are arrested in mid-tap. Mouth open, eyes fixed. Erin widens her smile.

“Uh,” Ben says.

“Hi.” Erin gives him a shy look, wrinkling her nose in an adorable way. Ben turns the shade of a clay brick.

If Mom notices, she says nothing. “Our system is pretty simple. Ben should be able to show you everything by lunch. If you have questions after that you can ask me, or Ben. I’ll leave you to it for now.”

She bustles away, scooping up her mail as she goes.

I linger, picking through the rest of the mail. Ben remains motionless. I deliberately bump into him.

“Uh …”

“Guess I’d better get to work,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Erin. If I get any calls, just put them through. I never hide. You should get started, Ben, before Mom cracks the whip.”

Erin sits down, fingers resting lightly on the mouse. “So, Ben, how do I log in?”

Ben gulps and finally scuttles around the reception desk to her. I walk off to find coffee, chuckling to myself, letting Ben suffer on his own.

Abby

I answer the phone after one ring.

“You on the toilet?” Zach asks cautiously.

“No, eating lunch.” I stab at the lettuce on my leafy-green salad, my penance for the eggs and bacon at breakfast and the chicken last night. “I wouldn’t have answered, remember?”

“Just thought I’d check. How are you?”

“Me? Great.” I don’t tell him Mr. Beale yelled at me for twenty minutes for being ten minutes late. Result, I’m taking a short lunch and will be staying after work.

“I’m great too.” His voice is low, sultry, holding notes of what we shared last night.

I forget all about my salad, Mr. Beale’s stinging reprimands, my painful workload. I remember Zach, his hands on my body, the heat of his lips, the way his face smooths out when he comes.

I wonder what he’s called about, what he wants to ask. But Zach asks nothing. He just talks. Tells me about the new temp and how Ben nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw her. How his charity house is coming. He then asks about my mom, my work, what I’m doing. Like he’s interested.

We talk, we laugh. I stretch out my legs under the table in the empty lunchroom and give myself over to conversation. I haven’t done that, especially not with a guy, in a long time. Well, with a guy, never.

My lunch comes to an end and I regretfully say good-bye. We don’t make any plans to see each other again. Or to talk again.

But it doesn’t matter. With Zach I feel like I don’t have to be desperate. I don’t have to have a plan, a schedule, reassurance that I’ll see him. I know I will. What we have is just …

I give up trying to explain it to myself and return to my sterile cubicle. But the call has changed my attitude. The stress of trying to figure out how to sell a plastic thing that holds another plastic thing, to a business that makes bigger plastic things, lifts. It’s fun, like it used to be.

I stay my extra ten minutes after work to make Mr. Beale happy, and twenty minutes after that—I’m so absorbed in my projects.

Then I go home to my empty apartment and fill it with thoughts of Zach.

Am I heading for a crash? Heartache that will be worse than my bored loneliness?

I don’t know, and for this moment, I don’t care. Zach doesn’t call tonight though I leave the phone next to me wherever I am. Still, I don’t care. This afterglow is going to last a long, long time.

Zach

Austin says I’m stalking her, but I can’t help it. I call Abby at least once every day. I don’t give a shit what we talk about—I just want to hear her voice.

I stop calling her during