One
Kristin
What do you say when you tell your boss you want a bigger challenge and he rewards you with the fluffiest fluff piece in the newsroom? Well. There’s a whole string of four-letter words I’m tempted to unleash on him.
Good thing I’m good at biting my tongue.
I smile professionally, even though I’m feeling deflated. “Thanks, sir,” I tell him, trying not to let it show. I’ve practiced my whole life for this. Saving face. I was cheer captain in high school, student body president, homecoming queen—you don’t get there by letting your emotions show.
“Four hundred words, on my desk by Monday,” he says.
“I won’t let you down.”
Part of me almost hates him for giving me the lousy assignment. He knows I’m recently divorced, officially a single mom with six-year-old twin girls. I don’t just want the big, badass assignments. I need them.
For almost ten years my husband provided for me. He even insisted I don’t work. Now that he’s left me for a younger, slimmer model, I’m on my own with two daughters and a stack of bills and barely any employment history. I know, I should be grateful I’m getting any assignments.
But an interview with a scientist? Come on. I know it’s important that I try to click with the person I’m interviewing, find common ground and get them to open up, let down their guard. How am I going to do that with someone like this…Jonathan Wells guy? I like words. Science and math? Not so much.
And even if I do succeed at connecting with him and working up a decent profile…nobody is going to read it.
#
I called the lab asking for a “Jonathan Wells” and the administrative assistant said, “You mean Big Jon?”
My eyebrows knitted together. “Um. Yeah?”
“For safety reasons he can’t meet you on these premises.”
That was disappointing. It would be best if I could see the lab, get a feel for his work environment, so I could try to put that feeling into words. “Where can I meet with him, then?”
“There’s a coffee shop on Camfield and Park. He can see you there at eleven.” It wasn’t ideal, but I’d make it work.
“All right,” I said.
Now I’ve been sitting here waiting for him for the last half hour. At least it’s a nice place—an old repurposed warehouse with big open windows, stained-concrete floors, exposed ductwork and brick. I’m on my second cup of coffee. Where is this guy?
I found his picture on LinkedIn so I’d know who he was when he walked in. The photo was fuzzy though. Dark hair, dark eyes, glasses. Medium build. Maybe a beard? That was all I could make out.
Fueled by too much caffeine, my exasperation starts rising to a fever pitch as more minutes tick by. I’ve checked email a dozen times, killed some time on Facebook, posted to Instagram, and all but memorized my questions for “Big Jon”—what kind of name is that for a scientist, anyway? There’s nothing else to do but wait with my arms crossed, tapping my foot impatiently, my eyes narrowed at the front door.
And then it opens to a tall, dark figure, silhouetted by the bright mid-morning sunshine. My heart climbs to my throat. There’s no way it’s him, but my gaze is pulled to him with magnetic force. When the door shuts behind him, I can see all of his handsome face and the muscles in his broad, hard, strong-looking body. Dark eyes, almost black, find mine. My stomach flips when he smiles at me.
The disastrously handsome, imposing stranger approaches me, and I glance around. He must be looking for someone else. I look back up at him.
“Kristin Max.” My name drips from his voice like dark, slow honey. “Pleasure to see you.”
“You’re…Big Jon?”
He laughs, softly. “It’s a silly moniker.” He holds his hand out to me and I shake it, ignoring the urge I have to keep holding onto his warm, sturdy hand. “Call me Jonathan.” He sits down.
“Thank you for meeting with me.” I give him some background about my assignment, same spiel I already gave the administrative assistant. He listens with interest anyway. I pause to sip my coffee and suddenly realize he never ordered.
“How rude of me,” I mutter. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“That won’t be necessary. Sitting here with you”—he smirks, turning me on full blast—“is all the stimulation I need.”
Cheesy line. It works though. My heart speeds up and my lady parts tingle with need. “All right. Well. I will just dive right into my questions.”
“Sure, Kristy.” For a moment my breath catches in my throat. I haven’t been called Kristy since before I was married. I slide him a look. Jonathan appears unmoved.
“It’s Kristin,” I say curtly, out of habit. My ex-husband hated the shortened Kristy so I just started rejecting it too. “All right, Johnny?”
“Jonathan,” he amends. “Let’s get started.”
“Let’s.”
“Out of fairness,” he says, melting my panties with a smoldering grin, “when you’re finished, I’d also like to ask you some questions.”
I giggle out of sudden nervousness. Is he flirting with me? Oh god.
Against every good sense I have, I polish off my last sip of coffee and then lean a little bit closer to him, over the small table. I say, “Sure, we can do that.”
Two
Big Jon
Kristy Max—popular girl, class president, inspirer of wet dreams. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me, she has no idea who I am. She never looked my way in high school. She definitely never looked at me like this.
I find it amusing. We took biology and English together, floundering and excelling conversely, the yin to my yang. Hell, we were posed next to each other in the senior yearbook as “Most Likely to Succeed.” Yet she has no clue who I am, who I was. I wonder if she loves her job as much as I love mine. I wonder if she’s single…
Don’t go there.
Why not though? She’s still a knockout. In her fitted skirt suit and glasses, those matured blue eyes and that kittycat smile, I bet she still breaks hearts everywhere she goes.
She’ll break my heart if she isn’t in my bed tonight.
My dick flexes at the impure thought. I shift in my chair, and discreetly, reach down to adjust my slacks. This woman’ll have me burnin’ up if she doesn’t start asking questions soon.
“What do you… um…” Kristin looks flustered, stumbling into her first question. I take notice with a smirk, and she knits herself right together. “What do you like most about your job?”
Easy. “I like being optimistic. You can’t do this job well if you ever lose hope.” Now that we’re on the subject of work, the ache in my cock settles down.
She’s got a recorder running, but she scribbles that down anyway. “Lose. Hope,” she says, writing the words. “And what is it you…hope?”
I lean slightly over the table, narrow my gaze. “You have no idea what I do for work, do you?”
“Of course I do.” She scoffs. “You’re a scientist.”