“Some idiot ran into me and it’s not my fault,” I say back. “Ben.”
“You two know each other?” Mindy asks.
“Yes,” Ben says the same time I say “No.” Ben clears his throat. “Why don’t you get started,” he says to me. “I’d hate for that asshole client to get upset.”
I purse my lips together and glare at him. Then I blink, grab my bag, and hurry past Mindy. We go to the center of the gallery and up a flight of wooden stairs that have been painted black.
My pulse is pounding, and I can’t take my eyes off of Ben’s ass as he ascends the stairs in front of me. It’s so perfect and tight. A quarter would bounce right off that thing. There is a door at the top of the stairs that creaks open. The smell of paint and clay hits me hard.
“Close the door,” Ben says and I just know he’s going to yell at me and call my boss or something of the like. He turns around and crosses his arms. He’s grinning. “You’re not the fat, ugly nerd I was told was coming to install the new computers and fix the website.”
“And you might not be the asshole client I thought you were.”
“Just might not be?”
I lift my left shoulder in a shrug but can hardly move it under the weight of the bag. “I don’t know you yet. You can at least tell what I look like in a second flat.”
“That is true,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. He leans against an L-shaped desk that’s cluttered with books and messy stacks of paper. “Why do you think I’m an asshole?”
I swallow, trying to will the blood rush to leave my cheeks. “The way Mindy talked about you. You sounded like a high-maintenance diva, to be honest.”
His face brightens as he smiles again. Then he raises an eyebrow. “You know Mindy?”
Crap. I could lie, right?
“I mean,” he continues. “She saw you, and you’re clearly not fat or ugly.” His eyes do one more sweep of my body. “Not at all. So why would she lie?”
“She’s sadistic?” I offer, voice going high pitched.
Ben tips his head like he’s studying me. “She is, but not that much.”
“We went to high school together,” I admit and am surprised by the relief I feel in saying that. “And we weren’t friends.”
“What, were you the popular hot girl and she wasn’t?”
I let out a snort—yes, and actual snort—of laughter and give Ben a “what the fuck are you smoking?” look.
“Other way around?” he asks like it can’t be true.
I put my hand to my chest, meaning to draw attention to the giant R2D2 on my shirt as if that proves my point. “Very much so.”
“Because you like Star Trek?”
I blink and look down at my shirt. Nope. I just … can’t. I shake my head and stare at him with wide eyes. The adrenaline is wearing off and things are feeling more and more awkward. I wave my hand in the air.
“Look, sorry I called you an asshole, though I really didn’t call you that. Just show me the computers and I’ll get things set up, fix your site, and leave.”
Ben still has that stupid grin on his face, and I hate how attractive he is with it. “You’re making me want to prove to you I’m not an asshole.”
“Really, you don’t have to. You did seem like you were legit sorry you ruined my shirt back there—”
“You said you weren’t upset,” he interjects.
“I’m not that upset. That shirt really doesn’t fit that well and I only wore it because I’m slacking on laundry. I don’t think I’ve even worn it in years.” Color rushes to my cheeks. Why am I saying this? Stop talking, Felicity. “Now … let’s just get this over with and be on our separate ways. Then you’ll never have to see me and think of this awkward moment again.”
“I’ll definitely be thinking about this again,” he says and pushes off his desk. I just now notice the flecks of paint on his hands and arms. If I hadn’t been so dumbstruck by his damn good looks, maybe I would have put two and two together and figured out he was Ben.
Though, I highly doubt that.
It was already in my mind that Ben was an older gay man, not a super attractive guy in his thirties with muscles and tattoos and a rather large bulge in his—
Stop.
“Feel free,” I say and hold onto the strap of the heavy bag. Ben notices and steps forward to take it. Okay. Maybe he really isn’t an asshole. “So, your computers,” I start. “They were seriously old. How did you function?” I can be blunt right? We are past fake formalities by now.