5. Why Me?
Iwon’t admit this to anybody, but Wednesday staff meetings in Sylvie’s office are one of my favorite parts of the week. She brings more than enough pastries for the three of us, letting us get first dibs before Base members get to pick over what’s left. Ever since Sylvie hired me a couple months ago, I’ve looked forward to sitting here and shooting the shit with her every week. And Stuart too…maybe more than Sylvie.
“Anything fun planned for the weekend?” Sylvie asks me, twirling a pen in her fingers.
“I might head up to San Francisco to visit my sister and her kids, or I might stay in bed and listen to some new podcasts. It’s a tough choice.” I smirk. I love my sister and her ankle biters, but they’re not the kind of noise I enjoy.
Sylvie laughs. “I’d opt for the podcast every time.”
Stuart bounds into the room like a puppy. “Speaking of podcasts, I wanted to talk to you both about something.” He sets a cup of water in front of Sylvie, and then hands me a mug filled with black coffee. “Here you go, Mugs.” The effort it takes to not show how much I like that nickname heats my cheeks.
“Thanks,” I murmur, suddenly feeling too big for my skin. He gives me a smile that would knock a lesser woman out of her seat. Sylvie clears her throat, and I realize Stuart and I have been staring at each other for more time than is appropriate for coworkers.
He grabs the seat next to me, across from Sylvie where she sits behind her desk. “Let’s go through our meeting agenda first, then you can tell me what you’re thinking.” He nods, but I can practically feel him vibrating in his seat, eager to talk about whatever’s on his squirrel brain.
We chat about some of The Base’s newest members, upgrading the Wi-Fi, and the schedule for the sound booth. Now Stuart is jiggling his knee and biting his thumb nail. Impatience coming off him in waves.
Sylvie folds her hands on her desk and pauses, the tiniest evil smile on her face. I wonder if part of the reason she hired Stuart is because he’s so easy to fuck with. As soon as she nods at him, he’s off like a shot. I can’t hide my smile at his eagerness.
“Okay, so you know I’ve been trying to figure out an interesting topic for a podcast.” Oh no... “I had dinner with my family last weekend, and it hit me. Runt of the Litter.” He moves his hand in the air like he’s reading an imaginary marquee.
Sylvie and I stare at him, waiting for him to explain. He scoots forward in his chair, and I’m hit with his pineapple and fabric softener scent. I uncross and recross my legs. “I’m the youngest of six.” My eyebrows shoot up. “And the dynamics of a family that size is like a plate of spaghetti.” He takes a quick breath and puts his hands flat on Sylvie’s desk. “But all family dynamics are complex. So I want to start a podcast about the relationships between siblings, and how birth order and other factors affect relationships inside and outside the family. What growing up in families of all sizes is like. I’ll start with mine—I’ll interview some of my siblings, and other people from families of all stripes. I want to focus on what it’s like to be an only child, or a youngest, or oldest, or in the middle.”
“That sounds so much better than that podcast on driftwood I listened to when I was high,” Sylvie says. A slow smile spreads across her impish face when she turns to me. “Can you get Stuart on your schedule?” I guess she likes fucking with me too.
No. No I can’t get Stuart the nice-smelling, firm-lipped, embodiment of the unicorn emoji on my schedule. It would mean—I suck in a breath—it would mean he and I working in close quarters whenever he records an episode. And knowing him, he’d want to hover over me when I edit it. That’s a lot of time together.
I glance at Stuart, and he looks at me with so much hope on his face, I can’t pull myself away. “Sure,” I answer, my lungs deflating on a sigh. He blinks at me, the kind of blink a puppy makes before it’s about to pounce. But now I’m the one who wants to crawl into his lap.
Sylvie claps her hands. “Fantastic. I can’t wait to hear the first episode.” I grab an eclair from the pastry plate and book it out of the office. I need to regroup in my studio.
Sitting in front of my laptop, I take a giant bite of the dreamy pastry, licking my lips just as the door to my cave opens. I know who it is before I turn around.
“Hey, do you have time to look at the schedule now?” Stuart asks as he approaches my desk. I stand up and turn around, wanting the ability to get out of his scent range. The corner of his mouth tips up as he approaches me, and I fight to breathe normally. But I suck in a breath when he ghosts a finger across my cheek. I wish I’d stayed sitting because my knees go rubbery and my skin heats.
“Chocolate,” he says in that unnaturally deep voice he has, his eyes glittering. Then he licks the tip of his finger, swirling his tongue more than a tiny bit of chocolate calls for.
I’d rather not talk about the sound that escapes my throat. He’s kind enough not to mention it. I plop down in my seat, not trusting my knees one bit. I quickly swipe a napkin across my lips and cheeks.
“Sure, let’s talk schedules.” I refuse to mention the tongue thing, trying not to focus on the tug behind my belly button. He sits in my spare office chair and leans forward, setting his elbows on his knees.
Why do I find everything Stuart Smyth does arousing? He’s just sitting, for fuck’s sake. Have I ever noticed other men doing this? Stuart’s forearms are shockingly sexy for a guy who looks like he stepped out of an Archie comic. Dark reddish hair can’t hide the freckles and veins that run up the length of his arms. Heaven help me if he flexes those puppies.
His eyes rake over me from head to toe then land on my shoulder. Is he blushing? I realize my bra strap is peaking out of my collar and quickly readjust my shirt to cover my shoulders, but that only makes the large neckline drape over my admittedly fantastic cleavage. Fuck it, let him look.
Stuart swallows hard then manages to drag his eyes back to mine. “The schedule...when can I start recording?”
I allow myself a moment to gather my thoughts and switch gears from queen of the dry spell to professional sound engineer. “Do you have a script ready for the first episode?” I fold my arms, and Stuart’s eyes go wide. He leans back in his chair, crosses his ankle over his knee and folds his hands in his lap. Smooth.
“I have a rough outline, but I guess I shouldn’t wing it.”
“Not if you don’t want to say ‘uh’ a ton. Write something and practice it out loud a few times, then I can get you on the schedule. Next week is pretty slammed with the audiobooks that Joanie’s recording. If you’re in a rush, we might be able to work in the evenings.” Professional me wants to smack horny me across the head. Why did I suggest spending evenings in this cramped office with Stuart?
A quick grin splits his freckled face, and his eyes sparkle behind his glasses, but he bites the smile back quickly. I want to laugh at how hard he’s trying to look serious. He’s a few years younger than me, and sometimes I can see the little boy inside of him wanting to break out and run around like a terror.
I clear my throat. “Do you plan to interview your siblings? The booth is just big enough for two people, but it’ll be tight.” My cheeks flame at the word ‘tight.’
Stuart’s face goes slack and pale. “Crap. That means bringing them here. I didn’t think this through.” He eyes the small sound booth behind me. It’s a tiny, enclosed room about two and a half times the size of a phone booth with one window, the interior walls and ceiling covered in dark gray acoustic tiles.
My sound engineering equipment is out here, but this room isn’t much bigger than the sound booth. If Stuart’s chair was a little closer, or his legs longer, our knees would be competing for space.
“Why don’t you want your siblings here? Afraid us Basers are going to embarrass you?”
A loud bark of laughter escapes his mouth. “I’m the youngest of four boys and two girls. I’m afraid of rubber tarantulas and being pantsed in public.” He sighs and leans his head back and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know...my family makes me constantly feel like a little kid. And here I get to be a competent, mature version of myself.”
“Maybe you can interview them in the wild. The sound won’t be as good, but it’d make you feel better.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll do it here. What’s the worst that could happen?” He moves to stand, and I want to smack myself for being greedy for his time. I want him to stay and keep talking to me about his family.
But that’s not who we are. We’re coworkers who made the mistake of kissing once. But mistake feels like too strong of a word since Stuart definitely, and with intent, kissed me back.
I’m still seated when he stands and bends at the waist, bringing his face within kissing range. I suck in a breath. “You in there, Meredith? Your peepers glazed over for a bit.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Peepers? When did you turn into a geriatric charmer?” He makes it difficult to maintain my disinterested mask. Stuart’s too...everything. Too young, too excitable, too enthusiastic.
Too magnetic.
A dimple pops on his smooth cheek, and his eyes dance behind his glasses. “Meredith Lopez-McMillan thinks I’m charming.” He mimes writing something down on the palm of his hand, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his lips like he’s concentrating too hard. “Noted.” With that, he turns and exits my control room, leaving behind his pineapple and fabric softener scent and a small smile on my face. There’s no way you’re going to survive this with your panties and sanity intact, Meredith.
I straighten the notebooks and pens on the metal shelves of the small storage room on the first floor. The notebooks were already straight, but this room is where I come to think, and I need to fidget and futz in order to do that. I don’t need a ton of quiet time—I like being around people. But even the most extroverted person needs time to think. And right now Meredith is all I’m thinking about. That purple bra strap...fuck me. And the way a little piece of her silky, straight black hair caught in her dark plum lipstick. I imagine that lipstick leaving marks on more than my mouth. I groan at the tightness in my jeans.
My little baby crush on Meredith was under control until she laid that kiss on me. Now all bets are off. I dream about the moment she grabbed my shirt and pulled me down to her. I dream about a lot of things where she’s concerned. My hands clench at the memory of how well we aligned chest to chest and mouth to mouth. At least I had enough presence of mind not to grind myself into her, but I really, really wanted to.
But today, in that small office, talking about recording my podcast after business hours...the back of my neck heats and my cock jumps. I restack the printer paper, wanting to beat myself over the head with a thick ream of it. We need an anonymous suggestion box so I can stuff it with notes about adding a cold shower to the office. Maybe attach the shower to the breastfeeding room where there’s a comfy couch. Fuck, now I’m thinking about Meredith laid out on the red couch in that quiet room tucked down the back hallway.
My dick needs readjusting in my pants, but the door to the storage room flies open before I can do anything. Mars, a new member of The Base pokes his head in. “I think I broke the coffee maker again.” I try to set thoughts of Meredith and her fishnets aside and get back to work. I need to focus on refining the script for my first podcast episode, not the sexy as hell sound engineer who kisses like a naughty goddess and smells like a flower garden at midnight.