When I hear the knock on the door, I groan inwardly, steeling myself for her. "Come in."
It's not Chelsea. It's Gaige.
Gaige walking through the door on my first day is fucking perfect. Especially after I just saw him last night, when he was pissed off and angry and...sexy, the way he pulled me close to him, his hand wrapped around my fingers, practically threatening to kiss me.
No. I refuse to even let my thoughts go there. The past is the past. When you're eighteen years old, on your way to finally throw caution to the wind and sleep with the guy you like more than anything else in the world and you're intercepted by a girl he may or may not be screwing, that makes you feel differently about him.
Of course, it was damn hard to ignore how I felt about him last night, the way my heart raced and my breath caught in my throat when he pulled me toward him. Gaige had the same effect on me back then. All along, I've discounted my memories of that summer, attributing my desire for Gaige to the fact that we were eighteen and our hormones were crazy, but here I am, standing in front of him again, and it’s like nothing has changed. He still irritates the shit out of me. And sends desire ricocheting through my body.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, crossing the room to shut the office door behind him. "It's my first day. I don't need any grief from you, Gaige."
"Come on, Delaney," he says. "Do you really think that poorly of me? I came bearing a first-day-at-the-office gift and coffee."
It's not even nine in the morning. I can't decide if I'm annoyed that he's in my office or pleased that he dragged himself out of bed to show up here. He's wearing a bright pink t-shirt that somehow has the opposite effect you'd expect from a pink shirt, making him look even more masculine than he did last night, which seems to be a ridiculously unfair trick the universe is playing. The soft cotton fabric grazes over his body, and I can see the outline of his chest muscles underneath. I have to force my eyes away, anywhere else but on his chest.
He has a box tucked under his arm, wrapped in royal blue paper and tied with a silver bow, and a coffee cup in each hand. He hands me one of the cups, and I take it apprehensively. "What's all this?" I ask.
"It's a peace offering," he says. "Three creams, two sugars."
Four years since I walked out of his life, and he remembers how I take my coffee? He's being way too nice this morning. I peel off the lid of the coffee and sniff it, then look up at him. "Should I question whether it's been poisoned?"
Gaige cocks his head to the side. "I'm horrified you even have to ask, darlin'," he says in that drawl of his, the one that practically drips with sex.
I can't help but laugh. "Sure, because you'd never spike my drink with anything."
"If you're referring to the moonshine incident, that happened four years ago, and I've matured since then," he says.
"You're claiming to have matured?" I ask. "Now I definitely don't trust you."
"You have to admit it was funny," he says. "And you were a lot more entertaining at my mother's event than you would have been otherwise."
"Oh my God, Gaige, it was a charity event," I say. "A bunch of socialites didn't need to see me trying to do karaoke at a party where there wasn't even a band." At least Gaige escorted me out of the room without causing an even bigger scene than I'd already made that night.
"I can hardly be faulted for what happened," he says. "If you recall correctly, I didn't exactly spike your drink. You stole mine, and it wasn't my fault it was leaded instead of unleaded fuel."
"What?" I shake my head. "You didn't stop me from taking it!"
Gaige shrugs, but his eyes are bright. "Caveat emptor," he says. "Let the buyer beware and all that. How would I know you had less than zero alcohol tolerance?"
"Because I was eighteen," I say.
Gaige laughs. "My tolerance was great, and I was eighteen."
"You were wild." I put the lid back on the cup and Gaige watches me, chuckling. "I was innocent."
A slow smirk pulls up the corner of his mouth, and my hand trembles just seeing that smirk. I have to steady it with my other hand. "Not that innocent," he says.
The words are heavy, dripping with desire. Or maybe that's just the way they sound to me. I clear my throat to cut the tension between us. "Thanks, anyway, but I'll pass."
"You really aren't going to drink it?" he asks. "You don't have room to complain, not after what you did later to get me back. I mean, you went the obvious route, so you got zero points for creativity, but whatever."
"Laxatives in the coffee might not be that original," I agree. "But it was effective. You were running to the bathroom every five minutes, and that was good enough for me."