12. Kat
12
KAT
“ O h my God.” I walk into Angela’s office, closing the door behind me, and flop against it dramatically. “He heard the whole thing .”
Naomi looks up from the paper she’s reading on Angela’s couch, her bare feet tucked underneath her. “So he heard Ang talking about his dick?”
“What was that?” Angela looks up at me over her reading glasses.
I swear she wears them just to be taken more seriously at times. It would help more if they weren’t pink with orange polka dots, but it does add a little something.
“The conversations about how big his dick is. Seriously, Ang. This is what happens when you gossip at work. ”
Shrugging, she turns back to her laptop. “So? Was he offended?”
“I don’t think so. Honestly, sometimes I can’t tell with him. He’s hard to read.” Pushing away from the door, I kick my heels off and cross the room to join Naomi on the couch.
The loveseat is perfectly positioned beneath the window, and if I have reading to get done, the lighting doesn’t get any better. It’s almost certainly why Naomi is here now.
I sit down and tuck my legs beneath me, mirroring Naomi. “We’re making up a curriculum for a new class together. Adam’s idea.”
This gets their attention.
“Really? What’s the course?” Naomi asks, tapping her pen against her lips.
“Economics of the American Healthcare System. It’s not really a niche that either of us has much experience in, but it’s intriguing, right?”
“Yeah.” Naomi chews on the top of her pen.
She goes through a box of BIC pens a week, throwing them away when the caps are chewed into unrecognizable patterns. I’ve pointed out that it’s a waste of perfectly good pens, but it seems like it falls on deaf ears .
“I think it would be super popular,” she says. “It would do wonders for your career.”
“My thought exactly.”
Angela nods. “It would be great for your career. For both of you. But I still want to know about the sex.”
I groan. “I told you. Not now.”
“It’s not like he’s going to show up at my office, is he?”
I gesture toward the door. “Maybe not, but anyone else could. The department head. The dean. One of our other coworkers. You want to be known as the girl who likes dicks?”
“It wouldn’t be completely inaccurate.”
Naomi snorts.
I can’t hold back my smile either. “Keep it in your pants, lady.”
“Fine.” Angela plucks a new pen out of the box in her top drawer and tosses it to Naomi, who has disposed of her chewed-up pen. “But I want a real gossip session, then. Let’s get margaritas tonight. Or tequila shots. Whatever will get you to actually talk to your best friends about your relationship.”
Tequila shots are not going to happen, and not just because of that one night back when I was a college student and had too many of them. It was the one and only night I did shots, and let’s just say tequila tastes even worse on the way back up than it does on the way down.
But beyond the memories of puking, tequila is like a truth serum. Most alcohol is for me, and that’s why I don’t drink much. If I do tequila shots, or more than one margarita, it’s entirely possible that I’ll blurt out the truth about my entire relationship with Blake.
I shake my head. “Not tonight. I’m having dinner with Blake.”
“Just dinner?”
I ignore the question, because honestly, I don’t know. “If you want to come over Friday, we can gossip. I’m not making margaritas, but I can pick up a bottle of wine.”
Sticking the new pen into her mouth, Naomi nods. “That works for me. I can even bring the wine if you want.”
Angela considers. “And you’ll order takeout?”
Jeez. Set your oven on fire once, and no one ever wants you to cook again. “I’ll order takeout. Italian?”
I sigh with relief as I step out of my heels and toss them into the closet in my entryway. Beauty is pain, or whatever the saying is, and the pulled-together professional look is worth it for what it gets you in your career. But damned if I’m going to assault my feet any more than necessary, and shoes don’t belong in the house.
I slide my feet into my fuzzy slippers and pad across the small house to my bedroom, where the skirt and button-down shirt are the next things to go. I pull on my go-to leggings, the ones that have a small hole in the crotch after being worn so often.
I really should throw them away, but they’re too comfortable to give up. Besides, it’s not like I wear them in front of anyone. I could walk around with no pants at all in my house, and no one would know the difference.
It only takes me a few minutes to settle into my post-work routine, and soon I’m seated cross-legged on my extra-deep sofa, a can of lime La Croix on the side table and a pile of papers to grade in front of me. I lift the remote and hit Play on an episode of The Bachelor from earlier in the week.
Now, before you make a comment about reality shows or anything like that, I would like to point out that when you work hard all day, sometimes you need something light and fluffy to decompress afterward. And that something like fifty percent of The Bachelor viewers hold a master’s degree or higher.
Also, I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of my television viewing habits. Or my smutty romance books, for that matter.
My therapist once pointed out that the common thread in both of these hobbies is that they tend to have predictable happy endings, and asked if I’d considered that I was focusing on those happy endings so I wouldn’t have to worry about my own.
I found another therapist, one who appreciates the fine literature that is the romance genre.
Uncapping my pen, I start to go through the first test, marking points off here and there while the girls on the TV gush about the male lead.
“He was my soulmate !” one of them says tearfully.
I glance up at the screen. Mascara runs down her cheeks. I wonder if the contestants choose not to wear waterproof mascara, or if the producers insist on it. The smeared makeup adds a certain level of drama.
I circle a red B at the top of the page and set it face down in a separate pile. My phone vibrates, distracting me from my dual TV-watching and grading.
Blake
Does 6 work for you for dinner?
Sure. Where? I can meet you.
I’ll pick you up. Send me your address.
I can drive.
I’m sure you can. But I know where we’re going and it’s in the city, and parking’s a bitch. Just let me pick you up.
Please.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I like to drive myself for dates, when I have them, which is rare. But in those cases, I usually don’t know the guy well and don’t know if I’m going to want to spend much time with him.
With Blake, I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to kidnap or murder me, and I know we’ll have a good time. I always do with him.
Plus, it isn’t a date. Not really. And he said please.
There’s also the concern about letting a coworker see my house. Not that I’m ashamed of it. Not at all. I’ve spent hours picking out decorations and making this place mine.
I look around. It’s not like it’s dirty . It’s just clutter. Plus, the living room is all he’ll see from the doorway, and most of the mess is in my bedroom and the kitchen .
For some reason, though, I don’t think I mind Blake seeing my house and getting to know this side of me. Maybe because we have this agreement, and because it was largely his idea. We’re keeping one another’s secrets for now, and mutually assured destruction is a powerful motivator to keep things to yourself.
Fine.
I text him my address and check the time—5:15. Enough time to get a few more papers graded before I get dressed and put those goddamn heels back on.
Knock. Knock.
I pause The Bachelor , right as he’s about to hand out the second-to-last rose of the night. The dramatic music has risen almost to its peak, and I wonder if I heard right, but then it comes again, a knocking at my front door, louder this time.
“Oh, fuck !” I shriek, realizing what time it is.
I jump up, knocking the half-full can of La Croix off the table. I dive to catch it before it spills, but all I manage to do is land on the ground next to the can, my ass right in the liquid that’s already absorbing into the carpet.
“Shit!”
I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart and rub my elbows. Normally, I don’t get so absorbed in things that I run late. Or dive off the couch.
Another deep breath. The La Croix is just water. It’ll be fine.
I pull open the front door just as Blake is raising his hand to knock again. “Hey. Sorry, I got lost in grading tests. Come on in. I just have to change.”
Blake steps into my house, his gaze traveling around the living area. “I like your place. Very different from your office.”
Looking around, I see what he means. There’s color here, a lot of it, with splashes of deep reds and yellows, in contrast to the neutrals of my office. The carpet is a plush maroon that feels amazing between my toes.
When I focus back on Blake, his eyes are on me, his gaze heated.
“I like this side of you,” he says.
I don’t know how to respond to that, or how to respond to the look in his eyes. The look that says I want to kiss you or I want to push you up against the wall and have my way with you or possibly get on your knees and take my cock in your mouth .
My stomach bottoms out as I think through the possibilities, but when I meet his gaze again, the look is gone, and I wonder if I imagined it. Probably. That would be my luck, imagining sexual desire when really, this is all a business arrangement.
“Did you know you have a hole in your pants?”
I glance down, and my face heats.
My dive off the couch turned the small hole in my leggings into a sizable one. It’s no longer discreet, visible only when I sit spread-legged.
Now it’s extending right into the front of the leggings, like some kind of reverse camel toe. The lace of my thong is prominently on display, the pink and green pattern obvious against the navy blue of the spandex.
“I’m going to go change quickly,” I say, covering my crotch with one hand, even though he’s already seen it all.
When I said I was okay with him seeing this side of me, I meant the laid-back, colorful me that I keep at home. Not the hot mess in wet, ripped leggings.
“Take your time,” he says, a small smile playing at his lips.
I don’t take my time, rushing through the process of pulling on a dinner-appropriate outfit and freshening up my makeup. I cringe when I pull off the leggings. The hole is the size of my head.
Into the trash they go.
Farewell, my friend. You were the best pair of leggings a girl could have.
I smooth my hair with my hand, making sure the hoodie didn’t move any strands out of place, and then decide to run a brush through it anyway.
“Okay. Ready.” I emerge from my bedroom to find Blake sitting at my kitchen table, next to the stack of mail that I need to go through.
My face heats as I realize he’s seen the mess, but he’s not looking at the clutter.
His eyes are fixed on me.
His gaze skims down my body, slow and heated. As his eyes linger on my curves, I’m glad I picked this dress. It’s something I’d never wear to work—too tight to be taken seriously, too bright, too everything .
It’s a holdover from my modeling days, and while I’ve tried to leave most of that in the past, I couldn’t let this dress go. It’s one of my favorites.
Blake’s gaze lingers on my chest for half a second too long, and a triumphant feeling rushes through me. I wasn’t imagining the look earlier.
I’m not the only one interested .
But my eyes are going to stay on the prize for now. Promotion. That’s why I’m here, and Blake is in this for his own reasons. If real feelings get involved, it could jeopardize everything. We can’t chance that.
“Shall we?” Blake stands, and I try to ignore the way his body looks in jeans and a gray and blue Ardmore College T-shirt, the fabric stretched across his broad chest and showing off strong arms.
Strong enough to pin me against the wall as he—
“Kat.” Blake’s deep voice pulls me from my perusal of his body.
Not as subtle as I thought.
“Yes?” Why is my voice squeaky? Darn it. I clear my throat. “Yes.”
There. Professor voice.
Blake takes two steps to stand right in front of me, then one more until he’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body. Those strong arms wrap around me and pull me into him.
Without my heels, I’m struck once again by how much shorter I am than he is, by at least six inches. It’s a strange feeling when I’ve spent so much of my life as tall as the men I work with, or at least trying to with my too-high heels.
“You seem stressed. Just relax. This is going to be fun.” His voice rumbles through his chest .
Stressed? Me? Never.
But what else can I say? Sorry, not stressed, just thinking about you naked.
“I’m fine.” I push off his chest. “Sorry, just stressed about running late.”
And wondering if he can feel the sexual tension that surrounds us.
“Ready?” He steps back and offers his hand.
I take it, the warmth of his palm enveloping my hand as we walk to the front door.
I pause to slip on my heels, then I follow him out to the car he’s parked in my driveway, a black F-150.
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “You drive a pickup truck?”
We took an Uber to his house from the bar the first night we met, and the truck must have been in his garage. It’s definitely not what I would have pictured him choosing.
Grinning, he shrugs and pulls the passenger door open for me. “I’ve always wanted one. And living in the city, it wasn’t exactly practical. I’m not sure it’s practical now, to be honest, but I have room to park it in my garage now.”
I study him. Maybe I should feel overdressed, wearing a bright-red bodycon dress while he’s in jeans and a T-shirt, but he just wears them so well . And with the way he carries himself, it doesn’t seem to matter what he wears. He can command any room no matter what his outfit is.
“What?” Blake says, his lips quirking. “You look like you’re deep in thought.”
I let a laugh bubble up as I pull my seat belt down and across my body. “Just thinking it would be nice to have the confidence of a man every now and then. That’s all.”
Blake leans over, taking the seat belt from my hand and inserting the buckle into the clip. His arm brushes mine in a way that may be intentional.
“You have every reason to be confident in everything about you, Kat. And my confidence is from another place entirely, if you recall,” he says with a smirk.
His face is so close to mine that the heat of his breath brushes my cheek. His eyes are dark, the bright-blue irises overshadowed by his dilated pupils.
My breath hitches in my chest.
And then he’s closing my door, rounding the truck to the driver’s side, and climbing in to start the engine, leaving me with an ache between my legs that I can’t ignore.