Seen You Before (Work For It #2)
1. The Writer Observed
CHAPTER 1
THE WRITER OBSERVED
COLIN
“ W ait...if he’s got one hand around her neck and one hand on her boob, he can’t have a third hand playing with her pussy,” Joanie mutters to herself, only drawing a minimal amount of side-eye from our coworkers. This is just another typical day at The Base, listening to my desk mate write a sex scene.
I try to keep my eyes on my own work, but she’s still going on about the number of hands and holes in the scene she’s writing. A pen is stuck behind each ear, and she’s chewing on another one. There’s a smudge of ink below her plush lips, like she accidentally stuck the business end of a pen in her mouth.
Focus on your work, Colin. Joanie’s not for you. It takes all my powers of concentration to keep working on this software project—the one that will help me pay the bills. I only get paid if I deliver, so no more pretty distractions.
But my body isn’t immune to the visual Joanie’s words conjure. It hasn’t adapted to her sitting a few feet away mumbling about sex, and it probably never will. Every glimpse of her concentrating on her laptop or notebook makes my blood run hot. Joanie whispering filthy things to herself in the middle of a busy office has become a very particular turn-on.
With her earbuds in, I wonder if she ever realizes she’s talking to herself. Or if she’d care. She’s so focused on whatever’s on her laptop that she doesn’t notice the way I glance at her every time I need a break from staring at my own work.
Joanie’s an eight-foot-tall personality in the body of a five-foot-and-change woman. It feels like a hurricane blowing through whenever she’s here at The Base. I want to lean into the gales she creates, but when that energy is focused solely on me, I could swear I’m moments from getting knocked over.
Of course, she has no idea she affects me this way...hopefully. Nobody does. I’m simply Colin, the freelance software developer, the guy who gets mugs down from high shelves for everyone at the office. The guy who’s happy to chat about anything software or tech related. But my friends here don’t know what I did for a living before, and I’m not interested in them finding out. I won’t lie about it, but I’ve managed to avoid the topic for years.
Instead of concentrating on this chunk of code that’s due this week, I hide my glances behind my long hair and study Joanie while she twists a dark curl around her finger. The woman’s got so many fidgets I wonder if she stills when she’s sleeping.
Mmm, Joanie in bed.
Fuck, distracted again.
I should be working on this project for Zane and Will Brody. The brothers have a hand in a ton of nonprofits and local businesses, funding projects close to their hearts. They hired me to design and write software to help the organizations they work with more effectively track donations.
It’s an interesting project, but it’s not nearly as fascinating as watching Joanie when she tilts her head and whispers, “I might as well make it an alien romance if I’m going to keep the third arm.”
She’s so wrapped up in her writing that she seems unaware of the world around her. Carla, the owner of a start-up engineering firm, usually sits next to Joanie and likes to take breaks by playing catch with a balled up piece of paper. More than once a wadded up ball has hit Joanie in the forehead, and she didn’t even flinch.
Fuck it, my concentration is shot, and I huff out a frustrated breath, making Carla lift her eyebrow at me. I give her my best friendly smile and get up to grab some coffee from the kitchenette. I need a mental reset.
Even though I’m an independent freelancer and could work from home if I wanted, I’ve learned over the years that I work better when I’m surrounded by other busy people. I don’t do well with solitude, which puts a bit of a crimp in my plans to fly under the radar.
In the kitchen, I keep my back turned to the open-plan office, trying to train myself to stop glancing at Joanie. I’ve gotten good at not drawing attention to myself, but if I stare for any longer, she’s going to look at me, and I don’t want that. Or I do, but I shouldn’t.
JOANIE
Here’s what Colin hasn’t figured out. I know when he’s looking at me, even when I’m tits-deep in writing a story and staring at my laptop. Over the last eight years being a romance author, I’ve become well practiced in observing people without them knowing that I’m slotting them into one of my stories.
Ever since I joined The Base almost a year ago, I’ve been trying to figure out where I know him from. Because I’m sure I’ve met him, and it’s been bothering me almost daily. It’s not from school because he’s at least ten years older than me. I can’t place him at any of the many jobs I held before becoming a full-time writer or through my parents. So how the hell do I know him?
And if I don’t know him, I’d really like to. Have you seen this guy? Holy sex on a pogo stick, the man is hot as fuck. So hot that he short-circuits my writer brain so I can only think things like “sex on a pogo stick” and “hot as fuck.” My vocabulary used to include great words, but I think they drained out of my brain via my now always needy pussy. Just sitting near the man makes me wet. Now…words are hard. Oh, I wonder if he is too . Seriously, I might need help.
I watch him get up from his desk, which is diagonal from mine, and head to the kitchen. Somebody needs to invent a better saying than a tall drink of water . Colin’s tall like one of those giant plastic cups you get at bars in Cabo. And let’s not talk about how I want to suck him down with a straw.
The torturer is wearing his usual flannel shirt over a black T-shirt with jeans that fit his beefy body like they came out of the Jeans For Great Asses factory. His long, shaggy black hair is shot through with silver, but his bushy beard has even more gray in it. I don’t know what his jawline is like under there, but if the rest of his bone structure is anything to go by, I’d wouldn’t mind if he used his chin as a kickstand between my legs.
Maybe I should move on from writing this sex scene—it’s twisting my brain.
I quickly write down the kickstand thing in my notebook, which is filled with observations, snippets of future dialogue, and thoughts on potential plot lines. If it’s ever found by a future alien race, they’ll think humans worshiped sex toys and pancakes…and Colin.
Lately it’s become filled with wholly embarrassing musings on the big guy who has an easy smile and eyes that look like they’re hiding something. I write romance but Colin is a mystery I want to unravel.
Honestly, he’s been the inspiration for a few of my newest book heroes. Kind, quiet, gorgeous in an accessible way, with a wry sense of humor. I’d put him on the cover of all my books if I thought he’d go for it.
But when he puts his eyes on me, that’s when I really feel it. Blue as the sky, with dark rings around the irises. It only took one close encounter by the coffee maker for me to get irrevocably lost in them.
When he smiles, which is more often than you’d think for someone who looks like a reclusive mountain man, the whole world cracks open. The straightest, whitest, brightest teeth highlight the mischief he keeps behind wide, plush, pornstar lips.
Colin opens the cabinet next to the coffee maker and reaches for the lone mug on the top shelf. I don’t even think his arm is fully extended, and he’s definitely not on his tiptoes like I am when I try to reach the lowest shelf. He’s built like a bear mated with a giant sequoia tree. Weird, try again . Like a bear mated with an even bigger bear. I’m a writer, goddammit .
My life is driven by deadlines, and I need to get back to finishing this chapter without Colin drawing my mind away. The distraction has become so frequent that I’ve started chalking it up to taking small mental breaks from the constant writing. Everybody can use a treat to break up the workday, and thinking too hard about Colin being mine.
COLIN
I get stuck in the kitchen because suddenly everybody needs me to get something down from the cabinet. Stuart, the office manager of The Base and a good friend, sometimes calls me Hey Tall Guy. That’s how I know he needs help reaching something on a high shelf. And it’s not just here at the office, I’m also very popular at the grocery store.
When Joanie enters the kitchen with one more pen stuck behind her ear, she gives me a lopsided smile and reaches for the coffee pot. With all the coffee she drinks her blood must be fifty percent caffeine. How she doesn’t levitate I don’t know.
She scoots past me to reach for a sugar packet, but I grab it for her. My elbow brushes her arm, and she stills. It’s a sight to see, because I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced Joanie completely still.
This close, I see the swirls of caramel in her dark brown eyes. The blush on her cheeks, and the teeth marks in the lip she’s been biting.
She clears her throat. “Um, thanks.” She reaches for the sugar I’m still holding and our fingers brush. I’ve read Joanie’s books, and this is exactly a scene she’d write. But she’s not falling for me. She doesn’t know who I was—and it has to stay that way if I want to keep things from getting awkward. Or, more awkward than they already are.
Sure, maybe I’m attracted to her. Maybe I think about her all the fucking time. But Joanie and I are never going to have the kind of romance she writes about even though I want to lean down and kiss her right now, history and age difference be damned.
She blinks up at me, and I finally shake myself out of my thoughts, taking a step back. “Sure. Enjoy cup number forty-two.”
She snorts. Adorable . “It’s only cup number five, but I’m getting there. I can handle a lot more than this when I’m on deadline.” She mixes in the sugar and takes a sip of coffee. “How’s your project going?” She grimaces like the coffee’s too hot.
“Good so far. Zane gave me a good challenge, and I’m enjoying it. Fingers crossed it leads to more projects from him.”
“Living the self-employment dream,” she sing-songs, then closes her eyes like she’s embarrassed that came out of her mouth. Joanie does that a lot...says something funny or silly then regrets it. I wish she wouldn’t. She has no idea how charming she is.
Stuart comes into the kitchen, and I automatically grab a mug for him.
“Thanks. Hey, you all want to go to Foggy’s this Friday? There’s a two-for-one beer thing going on. I’m thinking of making it an unofficial official Base thing.”
Foggy’s, the local bar that’s down the block and across the street, is a popular meet-up spot for Wavecrest denizens. Alice, my client Zane’s girlfriend, owns the place, and we’ve had most of our meetings there.
“I’m in,” I say.
“Stuart failed to mention that this Friday is also karaoke night.” Joanie turns to Stuart and squares off, planting her hand on her hip. “I’ll come, but I’m not singing.” It’s like watching two baby chicks getting ready to rumble.
“If you’re not singing, you can help me brainstorm ideas for the office anniversary party,” Stuart counters.
Joanie’s mouth twists into a wry smile.
“Stuart, when I throw a party, guests are lucky to get salsa with their chips. You don’t want my help. But I promise to tell you all your choices are the best choices. Still not singing.”
“Why not?” I ask. She’s always so outgoing and effusive, I think a karaoke stage would be the perfect place for her.
“I’m bad. I mean really bad. Like will make your ears bleed bad.” Her eyes widen with emphasis, and she waves her hands around her ears.
“But that’s the great thing about karaoke—nobody cares what you sound like. They’re there for the enthusiasm and to sing along. If I can get up there, so can you.”
She levels me with a look that says get fucked but not in a good way .
“Tell you what, I’ll buy the drinks, you get up there and sing your favorite karaoke song.” She’s shaking her head before I finish talking.
What I don’t tell her is that I’ve never met a karaoke stage I didn’t own. Tell me Gaga wasn’t meant to be sung by a six-foot-five lumberjack wannabe, I dare you.
“Nope, but nice try.” She turns, throws me a wink over her shoulder... a wink ...then turns back around, and walks off shaking her head—probably regretting the wink.
Fucking adorable .