I say rare, because Jason isn’t much of a smiler. Or much of a chatter, for that matter. If you’re lucky, you can get a smirk out of him and a sarcastic comment. If you’re me, you get a scowl and an annoyed grumble. And that’s on a good day. On an average day, I get glazed dead-eyes that look right past me and stony silence.
Hey, I get it.
He’s smart.
Like, crazy smart. Scary smart.
In an office full of pretty smart guys (all ex-military except for Jason), he’s a computer hacker who puts us all to shame. He was top of his class at MIT for God’s sake before he dropped out for mysterious reasons.
And then there’s me. The lowly receptionist.
I don’t mind being the lowly receptionist. Most people at Windsor Security are great. No one treats me like shit because I’ve never served my country. Almost no one rolls their eyes at my (largely unused) degree in psychology. Mostly I answer the phones and greet any clients who might happen to visit our fourth floor offices. I keep the Keurig well-stocked and make small talk with the clients.
That’s enough for everyone in the office. Well, nearly everyone.
Mostly, I love that this job keeps my brain empty and stays here when I leave. Allowing me plenty of time to write in the evenings and weekends.
And if that’s not good enough for a certain brilliant programmer? … Well, he can bite me.
It’s just that I can’t stop wishing … well, that he would actually bite me.
Somewhere interesting, like the inside of my thigh. Or maybe my ass cheek.
Great.
And now, I’m flushed (and probably splotchy) and my pants are definitely wet.
Because the list of things I wish that man would do to me is long and detailed and more X-rated than the books I write.
Okay, as X-rated.
Since Jason either doesn’t know I exist or doesn’t like me, the whole perennially damp panties situation is a little out of control. And, yes, I know. It’s very unlikely that he doesn’t know I exist when I’ve worked here for nearly year. I know.
But it’s easier to pretend that’s a possibility than to face the fact that my dream guy thinks I’m a useless airhead.
Don’t judge me.
You can leave that to me, because trust me when I tell you I am not proud of how obsessed I am with Jason.
Who will never in a million years look at me the way Cade is currently looking at Summer.
Before I dissolve into a puddle of self-indulgent goo, I look down and realize that it’s time for me to head out.
I call out a general goodbye, ignoring the stab of pain when Jason meets my gaze for an instant, his scowl deepening before he looks away. I grab my bag off the floor. “Well, I’ll see y’all later.”
“Hey Sam, be careful out there. It’s really started to rain,” Cade says.
I walk back to my desk and grab my umbrella. “Thanks for the warning.”
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on the side of the road in a downpour and the front passenger side tire is a mangled mess. At least, I assume it is. I’d known for a while I needed new tires, but I’d been putting it off.
As soon as my car hit the mid-forties, I’d heard a loud pop, whooosh, flunk, flunk, flunk. I knew instantly it was blowout because … well, hello? … writers research everything and Kate Wallace, the heroine in my first book had a blowout. It’s why she didn’t catch the bad guy until the third act.
My phone isn’t getting a signal for some mysterious reason and my stomach is growling. I wrote during my lunch break and munched on nuts and cheese instead of having a full meal. Basically, I have three choices. I could drive home on the flat tire and probably ruin my wheel. I could change it myself (Hey, I have mad skills.), but it’s raining and I don’t wanna. Or I can walk back to the office, which is only a five-minute drive away, but probably at least twenty minutes on foot. In the rain.
Just when I thought I couldn’t hate today anymore, a car slows behind me.
Great. And now I will be murdered by a serial killer. This isn’t even the most dangerous highway in Texas for serial killers! That’s Interstate 45. Where Kate eventually got cornered by the killer and then rescued by the hero.
I’m already mentally preparing myself to fight off a serial killer with what I have in the car when I realize it’s Jason. Despite that, I jump when he knocks on my window. Of course my power window doesn’t work so I crack my door open.
“You okay?” he asks in that growly voice I find so irresistible.
The rain has slowed some, but it’s still pelting down on him. He’s got droplets on his glasses and his tightly cropped beard is as damp as is his short brown hair.
Sweet baby Jesus, how does he look even hotter wet than he does dry?
I nod in answer to his question. Then quickly shake my head when his scowl deepens, because—duh!—obviously I am not okay.
“Need a ride somewhere?”
“Yes!” I grab my stuff, open my door and keys, then step outside. “That would be great, thank you.”
He puts his hand at the small of my back and guides me over to his passenger seat. I try not to shiver or melt into goo or otherwise embarrass myself. Not entirely sure I’m successful. After all, this is the first time he’s actually touched me and I feel the heat of his hand through my rapidly dampening dress.
He drives a nice car. It’s sleek and black and no doubt has fancy leather seats. He opens the door for me, but I hesitate to get in.
I’m about to ask for a towel or something to sit on, but I make the mistake of looking up at his face and he’s staring at me intently. My sister told me once she thought Jason was in love with me, but I’m sure she’s crazy. Still, in this moment, Jason is rocking the sexy nerd thing. Glasses, plain conservative clothes, except on Friday’s when he wears those jeans that make his ass look like a national treasure and those geeky shirts that make me laugh.
Something in his expression changes and suddenly he steps closer to me.
There’s a moment I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. So sure. I even bob up on my toes a little.
But instead he leans down and says, a little loudly to be heard over the rain, “Are you gonna get in?”
“I—” Oh, shit. I drop back on my heels. Great. Now I look like an idiot. “Do you have a towel or something? I don’t want to ruin your seats.”
He cocks an eyebrow in the direction of the open door and I realize the rain has been getting in while I stood here.
“Just get in,” he mutters.
I scramble in, wincing at the water and mud I bring in on my feet, wishing I had some hard surface to bang my head on.
Of course he wasn’t going to kiss me! It’s raining and we’re standing on the side of the road. Oh, and he hates me and thinks I’m an idiot.
Besides which, it’s not like he knows I’ve had this fantasy of being kissed in the rain on repeat since that one Spiderman movie. Or that in my fantasy he’s my Spiderman.
“Where to?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.
I rattle off my address and he nods, types into the GPS in his dash, checks his mirrors, then pulls out into traffic.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” I say.
“Anytime,” he grumbles and I can feel the annoyance radiating off him.
Ignore it! I tell myself.