Chapter 2
CHAPTER
TWO
Gianna
Drake nods subtly toward Francine, politely acknowledging her presence, but his eyes—wild sapphires rimmed with the darkest lashes—are glued to me.
“I don’t know about accepting that challenge so quickly,” Francine says, teasing him. “Gianna’s quite a force to be reckoned with.”
“I didn’t say that I’d win,” Drake says, his grin digging deeper. “I just said I’d be happy to give Gianna a chance to handle me. Sounds fun.”
My teeth bite into my bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. It’s also a futile attempt at redirecting my attention away from thoughts of handling Drake Bennett, which is easier said than done.
Drake’s physical appearance alone could unravel even the strongest woman’s inhibitions.
Squarish jaw. Thick neck. Corded forearms that scream capability and strength.
His body was deliciously sculpted by years as an elite athlete, culminating in a Hall of Fame football career as a tight end.
He’s hot enough to make your knees weak, but so handsome he steals your breath.
The truly confounding thing about Drake—the piece of him that could seduce even the holiest saint—is his magnetism.
Women return his smile without realizing it.
Men clamor to be in his circle because his mere presence gives them social proof.
He has a way of making everyone feel as if they share a secret with him.
It’s almost criminal.
Drake slides one hand into his pocket and moves closer. “How’s our resident dream crusher today, anyway?”
I lift a brow in amusement. “Dream crusher?”
“The office plays our podcasts live through the building, you know. I couldn’t help but listen to you crush dreams left and right today.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re so mean,” he says playfully. “You’re like the Grinch who killed Cupid.”
I laugh as he comes closer and the notes of his cologne drift through the air. They’re subtle yet intentional—spicy but with discipline. It feels like an assurance that he’s a gentleman, but also a promise that he will have no problem being a bad boy if I ask nicely.
My arms cross over my chest, creating a nice view of my cleavage. If Drake happens to notice … oops.
“I like to think of myself more like the female version of Dr. House,” I say. “But without the PhD and a much better fashion sense.”
“Wasn’t he known for his terrible bedside manner?” Drake smirks.
“Only to weak individuals incapable of taking it.” I smirk right back. “And I can assure you that I’ve never heard any complaints about my bedside manner.”
His brows shoot up just before a wicked grin curves the edges of his lips. “And I assure you that I can take it.”
Now that’s a challenge I’d like to accept.
My pulse quickens as his confidence gives way to curiosity—and maybe a little admiration of my ability to give it as good as I get it.
It’s the cornerstone of our friendship, a push and pull that straddles the line of professionalism in the workplace.
But it’s okay because it’s just for fun.
As much as I would like to take him home for a night, I won’t.
Francine clears her throat, reminding us that we aren’t alone. My head whips to hers just in time to catch a cheeky smile.
“I need to be going,” she says. “I promised my husband that I’d be home while it’s still daylight outside. But if I could squeeze in just a moment to mention that Mercy Malone’s publicist got back with me just before you went on air. She’s apparently a huge fan of yours.”
“Did you hear that?” I ask Drake smugly. “Mercy Malone, the drummer for Wildfire, is a fan.”
If he rolled his eyes any harder, they’d fall out of his head.
“We’re trying to work together to get her on your show,” Francine says, adjusting her shirt collar.
“I’m cautiously optimistic, but there’s always a chance that it’ll fall through.
If it does come together, it might be a quick turnaround.
You may want to start putting together some questions. Just in case.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll get a list to you for approval by Monday.”
“They’re chill and said nothing’s off the table. So have fun with it. Put your famous Gianna spin on it, and it’ll be magic, I’m sure.” She glances at her phone. “That’s it for me. You two can return to your verbal pickleball. Gianna, great work today. And Drake … behave.”
I snort. Come on, Francine. Where’s the fun in that?
“It’s a pleasure to see you, as always,” he says, flashing her a smile that could kill lesser women. Francine, however, has worked with Drake longer than I have. She’s not exactly immune to his charm, but doesn’t trip over herself, either.
With a final wave, she leaves and shuts the door behind her. It closes with a crispness that punctuates her departure.
I take a deep, steady breath and blow it out with the same rhythm. My heart drums in my chest in wild strokes. The Thursday slot and Mercy Malone? Wow.
“Well, I didn’t expect to get confirmation of that today,” Drake says, stroking his chin. “And I’m rather surprised to get it from Francine …”
“What are you talking about?”
He drops his hand, his eyes twinkling. “When you spin on it, it’s magic.”
“Like there was any doubt.” I mock him with a smile. “How did your show go this afternoon?”
“This is such an imbalanced friendship. Do you know that?”
I roll my eyes. “You only listened to mine because you were here.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe I listen to yours every week.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I say sarcastically as I return to the search for my keys. “But even if I were a …” I lift my gaze to his. “What sports season is it right now?”
“Baseball.”
I nod before diving back into my tote. “Even if I were a baseball fan, I spent the late morning up to my knees in a dumpster. That reminds me—I need to check to see when my tetanus shot expires. Ah ha!” I pull my keys out from under a tampon and dangle them in the air. “I knew they were in there.”
“Can we back up to the part about you in a dumpster?”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with why.”
Drake half leans, half sits on the edge of the table, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Inch by inch, he exposes his forearms in a casually cool kind of way. I’d think he doesn’t know what he’s doing—giving great forearm—if it weren’t for the way the corners of his lip quirk toward the ceiling.
“Why?” I repeat. “Well, I was doomscrolling the other night and saw someone cutting butterflies out of cans. And I had an idea to take this one weird wall in my kitchen and fill it with butterflies made from different-colored cans. I think it would look beautiful, and it’s basically free if I can use discarded material.
Then, if I ever get tired of it, I can pull them down and recycle them. ” I beam. “Smart, huh?”
“Yeah. Great. Now, what about the tetanus part?”
I run a hand absentmindedly over my calf. “I got scratched by something while rummaging. A piece of glass, I think.”
“How deep?” he asks, his brows pulling together. His words are absent from the breeziness of before. “Do you know what the glass was from?”
“It’s a little hard to tell what touches you when everything shifts each time you move. Have you never been in a dumpster?”
He cocks his head to the side, as if he’s uncertain whether to laugh or have me committed. “No, Gianna. I’ve never been in a dumpster.”
“Well, you’re missing out. I mean, you have to pick the right one, but you can find fascinating things in there.”
“I bet,” he deadpans. “Now, where did it slice you?”
“My leg. But really, it’s fine. It barely got me.”
He lifts off the table and pats the place he just vacated. “Grab a seat.”
“I’m good, but thanks.”
He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed. “Humor me.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sit.” His eyes open, jaw ticking, and his gaze narrows. “Now.”
Damn, that’s hot. I should push back and not let him anywhere near me when he’s bossy like this—a side of him that I’ve gotten occasional glimpses of before.
But who am I to refuse kindness? People say you get out of the world what you put into it, and I’ve put a lot of nice vibes out there.
If the universe is trying to repay me with Drake Bennett’s hands on my skin, I can’t really turn that down. That would be rude.
And such a missed opportunity.
“You really need to work on your bedside manner.” I make a face as I round the corner of the table. He, however, isn’t amused. “Seriously, relax. I have a friend who's a doctor. I’ll send her a picture of the cut when I get home.”
“Your friend is a doctor?” He steps back as I hop onto the table and pull my knee up to my chest. “A real one?”
“You say that like you’re surprised that a doctor would be friends with me.”
He arches a brow. “You didn’t answer my question, which makes me more doubtful.”
“Yes, she’s a doctor,” I say with mock exasperation. “In philosophy but she’s a doctor nonetheless.” I hike my pant leg up to expose the little cut on the side of my lower leg. It’s crimson and jagged—decidedly not pretty. But it doesn’t look infected. “See? It’s not bad.”
He takes the back of my leg with his large hand, bringing the small red line closer to him.
His palm is warm, and his fingers press into my skin.
His touch is tender, but his skin is rough, and if he notices my goose bumps, he doesn’t show it.
It’s this juxtaposition mixed with his genuine concern that has me struggling not to pant.
For a girl who lives for physical touch? This is big, big trouble.
“I think it’s superficial,” he says, setting my leg down carefully. His eyes don’t meet mine. “And it doesn’t look angry.” He backs away as I tug my pant leg back down. “Do you dumpster dive often?”
“No. Not often. I don’t actually enjoy sorting through trash, but it’s a necessary part of the hobby sometimes.”
“And that hobby might be …”
I hop off the table. “I like to make art out of things people toss away, like cans, newspapers, and buttons. One of my favorite pieces is a fountain that I made from a urinal. It’s so fun.”
“That sounds …” He pauses. “Gross.”
I laugh at his reaction, and his chuckle joins mine. Together, it fills the recording booth with an easiness that’s hard to find with men. That’s one of the reasons Drake and I get along. Beyond his sittable face and fuckable body, he’s a pretty likable guy.
“What about you?” I ask, standing beside him. He’s a good six inches taller than me, and I have to look up to see him. “What are your hobbies outside of armchair quarterbacking sports teams?”
“I don’t armchair quarterback sports teams.”
“You decide whether it was a good call or a bad one after the fact. That’s the literal definition of armchair quarterback.”
He shakes his head, but his half smile erases the sarcasm. “I analyze players and games, discuss sports news and culture.” He taps the tip of my nose. “If you listened to an episode, you’d know that.”
“How do you know that I haven’t listened to an episode?”
He shrugs. “Just a hunch.”
“I know you think I’m just a pretty face, but I played volleyball in middle school. I know a thing or two about sports.”
His chuckle rumbles through me. “I didn’t realize I was standing next to one of my peers.”
“See?” I grin. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
I return to the other side of the table and retrieve my purse, phone, and keys. Drake checks his phone, chuckling at something on the screen. I’m curious about what he’s seeing and who sent it. I really don’t know much about him. Who are his friends? Where does he live? What does he do for fun?
Is he a good fuck?
“So what are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I hoist my tote onto my shoulder. “Any big plans?”
“I’m meeting my friends for dinner tonight. And I’m supposed to have a date tomorrow night, but we’ll see.”
“Hopefully, you’ve met your dream-crushing quota for the week, and he’ll be spared from your wrath.”
“You’re hilarious.” I stand next to him again. “Matthew and I have gone out a few times. It’s nothing new.”
“So Matthew understands he could be crushed at any given time?”
I bump Drake with my shoulder. He humors me by pretending to be knocked off balance.
“We’re not serious,” I say, thinking about how just un-serious my thing with Matthew really is—which is why it works out perfectly. I glance down at my phone and spot a text from Astrid. “I need to get out of here. I have a few errands to run before I meet my friends for dinner.”
Drake opens the door and waits for me to exit first. Once in the hallway, we face each other. His smile lifts mine as Juni makes her way around us, muttering something under her breath that has her shaking her head.
“Don’t forget to check your tetanus shot records,” he says.
“Yes, Daddy.”
His blue eyes darken, resembling a raging storm.
I give him a sweet, innocent smile and leave with the upper hand.