“We meet again,” I said, and cringed at how stupid I kept sounding in front of him. Seriously, a Master’s degree, and that was the best I could come up with. Cheesy chitchat usually only made an appearance with red wine and too many shots of tequila. The guy had hired me to help with the basics, and this wasn’t exactly showcasing my competence.
“Yep. Just out for a quick walk.” He nodded and picked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve.
Did he pass by me in the park on his walk? Oh God, had he seen me chewing? My mom’s chiding about my eating habits suddenly didn’t seem so stupid.
I chanced a quick glance his direction. Since that awful encounter in the break room the other week, his hair had been neatly trimmed into a stylish cut that accentuated his face. Brogan was all strong angles and broad shoulders. Normally my reaction to forced proximity with a hot guy in an elevator was that of a) glee b) praying I didn’t have horrible coffee breath, and c) the obvious hope of said hot guy jamming the big red stop button and proceeding to give a mind-blowing elevator romp.
A completely irrational, unfair thought process since he was really the only person I was not allowed to go for. Besides the thirty other men that worked for Starr Media. As the old adage went, the person you embarrass yourself in front of the worst is the person you want the most. And Mr. (anti)Antichrist was looking particularly appealing today.
He shifted and took his hands out of his pockets as I stared straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact in the mirrored doors. Oh, this was going to be a very long ride in silence.
I stared at the little red numbers climbing, each one taking its time. Should I say something else? It’d be rude not to, but then again, I was the one that made an ass out of myself and insulted him. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut like Jackson instructed.
“Nice day, huh?” Okay, so I failed at taking my own advice. Awkward silence gave me hives, and I always felt the need to fill it.
He clasped his hands in front of him and looked down at me. “Yep. Enjoy it while it lasts—supposed to be a rough winter.”
“I don’t mind rough,” popped out of my mouth even as Noooooo don’t you dare say that! tried to lasso my tongue. If I wasn’t carrying coffee, I’d be pulling the hood of my cardigan over my head and pretending I’d melted into the elevator.
The dimples made an appearance, and I could tell he was using every bit of restraint not to laugh. “Is that so?”
“That was way too far down the ‘that’s what she said’ rabbit hole to even begin to redeem myself. Can we let that slide?”
“My duty as CEO entails letting comments like that go.”
I didn’t get it. He seemed friendly enough, social, so why did this guy have so many rules to abide by? I’d expect it from someone who hated people, enjoyed making them sweat—not a guy who was still kind to a person who insulted their character. Then again, my dad had thousands of rules in our household and was well-liked by the community, and look how he turned out.
“About the other day…” I started and trailed off. Somehow “I’m sorry for calling you the Antichrist to your face” didn’t feel appropriate here.
“Yes?”
Ugh. It’d be so much easier if he’d say, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s start over.” But this was real life. Of course he wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. The edges of the to-go container dug into my palms as I gripped it for dear life. “I’m sorry for calling you”—I swallowed hard and managed to look him straight in the eye—“the devil.”
His lips mashed together, and it looked like he was holding back a laugh. “Technically, you called me the Antichrist.”
“Technicalities.”
“The devil’s in the detail.” A smug smirk etched across his lips. Damn him and those glorious dimples.
I groaned, and my feet ached to run anywhere far, far away, out of this damn elevator. “Okay, if I apologize another five times can we never mention anything involving Satan again?”
He chuckled and raised a hand, seeming to brush our previous interaction off, like it hadn’t been a big deal. “It’s refreshing to be insulted every once in a while. Everyone is a little too nice to me when they know I’m around.”
“I’m still really sorry. You’re not at all what I pictured.”
“No? And what did you picture?” His voice deepened, the question a challenge. If he weren’t my boss, I’d almost believe this brushed on the side of flirting.