“Christ, a Saturday, alone in an office for hours. Still she looks fuckin’ spectacular.”
I drew in a deep breath, sat in my chair, successfully ignored how his words affected me and glared at him.
Another thing my mother ingrained in me, which was incidentally one of the few things, like knowing how to cook, that she taught me that I liked, was that I never should look bad.
Even if I was dinking around at home, I didn’t do it in ratty sweats and old t-shirts. I might not do full-on makeup, perfume and overly styled hair, but I was never, not ever, a slob. I had knockabout clothes but they were fashionable loungewear like comfortable yoga pants, hoodies, wraps and stylishly cut tees.
If I was going to step foot out of my house, although on occasion my loungewear worked, normally I ratcheted up the effort.
Like today. I had on a pair of bootcut jeans that I knew did miracles for my ass, which wasn’t, like Ty-Ty’s, something to write home about. Purple leather platform, spike-heeled booties that skimmed the bottom of my ankle and had a saucy, silver zip at the side (these also did miracles for my ass). And a thin weave, soft wool, silvery sweater that was slightly see-through, showing my lilac cami underneath, and it had an intriguing drapey neckline that was close to my neck on one side but went wide on the other, exposing goodly amounts of shoulder and half my collarbone.
I was reconsidering this life rule and making plans to troll Goodwill stores for stained, used sweatpants and sweatshirts, trying to contain the queasiness this thought was giving me as I opened up my food and the scent of sublime Imperial kung pao shrimp hit my nostrils.
Heaven in a Chinese food container.
I totally forgot about my Goodwill plans and snatched up the chopsticks. When my cell on my desk rang, I was so distracted by my watering mouth and a mind way too filled with garbage that I stupidly picked it up, hit the button, and put it to my ear. I did this, one, without reading the display and two, without thinking about the fact that Hop was sitting right across from me.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Lanie, darling! Guess what?”
Mom.
Mom sounding excited, which was never good. You’d think it would be but it never, ever was.
Mom on my phone with me in my office with Imperial kung pao shrimp, one of my drugs of choice, and Hopper Kincaid, another one, Hop being the drug that was harder to beat.
Why me?
My eyes went to Hop to find his eyes curious and warm on me.
He had great eyes.
Gah!
Everything that was happening crashing over me, my forehead went to the edge of my desk, where I pounded it repeatedly.
“Lanie?” Mom called into my ear.
“Babe, Jesus, stop doin’ that,” Hop called across my desk.
Silence from Mom but as for me, my entire body went still, which fortunately meant I quit banging my head on my desk.
“Lanie, baby girl, are you with a man?” Mom asked, sounding breathy, which meant even more excited.
Damn!
I started banging my forehead on my desk again.
“Lanie, seriously, stop fuckin’ doin’ that,” Hop ordered, closer, like he was leaning across my desk, and also sharper, kind of like a gentle bark.
“Oh my goodness, Lanie! Are you there? What’s going on? Why aren’t you speaking? Are you out on a date?” Mom asked, and I shot up to sitting in my chair.
When I did, I saw Hop did not have his feet on my desk. He was out of his chair, leaned across the desk toward me. His food container was set aside, one of his rough, callused, beautiful, strong, intensely masculine hands planted in the middle of my desk. His eyes were intent on me.
“Lanie! Are you there?” Mom called, beginning to sound panicked.
“I’m here, Mom, and I’m not out on a date,” I finally replied.
Hop held my eyes.
Mom said nothing for a few moments, then, “All right, then who’s that man I hear?”
“No one,” I told her.
Quiet from Mom again until, “Uh, whoever that no one is, he has a nice voice.”
He did. It was deep, slightly rough, mostly smooth, and this might sound impossible but it absolutely wasn’t. It could get rougher or smoother, depending. For instance, it got smoother when he was doing something to me. It got rougher when I was doing something to him.
“Though,” she continued, luckily breaking me out of these heated thoughts, “it’s rude to use the f-word. If he’s an acquaintance of yours, you should find a quiet moment to tell him that.”
Argh.
I pulled in breath, tearing my eyes from Hop’s, I turned slightly in my chair and said, “Listen, Mom, I’m at work, getting a few things sorted. My mind was occupied when I picked up. Sorry. What’s up?”
“Oh, okay, darling,” she murmured then, back to excitement, “Guess what?”