“Can you create different responses based on the type of pet name they use?”
“Hmmm.” I purse my lips. “That’s a great question, and I’ll ask. But in the meantime?”
Locke shakes his head. “I’d put babe in the flirty bucket.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t call my mom babe.”
“Right.” My cheeks heat. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He flashes a grin that shows off just how sexy his smile is. “I’m happy to discuss flirtation with you anytime.”
I just…damn. How do I answer that?
Despite my swooping stomach, I paste on a smile and volley back. “Oh, well, flirtation is nothing. We haven’t even gotten to the fuck spectrum yet.”
Is it my imagination, or does Locke choke a little?
“Excuse me?” a masculine voice inquires over my shoulders.
Locke freezes, and scarlet heat creeps up the back of my neck.
Fuck spectrum.
Dear god, please don’t let that be Curt.
Even though this kind of conversation is part of my job, it’s a way harder part to explain at first blush.
I turn and remind myself to breathe.
The man carrying the cardboard box of office supplies in his burly arms isn’t Curt.
Thank god.
“Do you know where Damien Price’s desk is?” he asks.
Locke’s eyes burn on my back as I shrug. “Um. Second floor?” I say. “Room 205.”
Why do I feel so guilty having that knowledge?
The man shakes his head. “Word has it, he’s moving up to this office.” He lifts the box to prove his point.
What? No.
I scan the room and spot the only open desk—the one directly next to Eden’s.
My coworker sits at her desk, having turned around at the interruption.
“Yeah,” she calls. “He’s over here now.”
Fuuuuck.
The only thing remotely consoling about the situation is that at least Damien’s coming to us rather than having us move to him. If the writing team got moved, the odds of me ending up across from Locke again would be slim, and if I wasn’t across from Locke, I wouldn’t be having half as much fun.
As the man crosses the room to drop off Damien’s box, I shoot Eden a sympathetic glance. Whatever your feelings about Damien, sitting next to the boss means you have to be on your best behavior. Less browsing the internet in your free time and more pretending to be focused.
Eden has way more chill about it than I would. She just gives me a tiny shrug and turns back to her computer. I try to go back to my work, too, but my eyes drift to the far end of the room without my permission. I recognize the books in the box from Damien’s office, along with a few knickknacks. The spider plant doesn’t appear to have made the cut. Figures.
A minute later, Damien walks in, and the room suddenly seems very small.
My skin prickles and my shoulders stiffen, and I try to ignore the way his cologne wafts through the room, twisting my stomach and forcing me to take shallow breaths.
Locke watches the whole affair with a grimace, then finally groans and gets to his feet. “Come on, Lively. I need to put you out of your misery.”
I swing my gaze back to him and lift my eyebrows. “I’m not in any misery.” I’m supposed to be trying to make Damien jealous, not puking at the sight of him.
Get it together, Greer.
Locke leans forward in a challenge. “Don’t make me call you out on your b.s. in front of everyone.”
A flush sweeps down from my cheeks to my chest. “Fine. I’ll play it your way. What did you have in mind?”
Locke smirks at me. “Lunch work for you?”
I cast another glance at Damien, who’s already making himself at home. Suddenly, getting out of here sounds like a great idea.
I grab my purse and stand. “Lead the way.”
“Hey.” Locke nudges my foot with his under the table at the dim sum restaurant we chose for lunch. “Food was supposed to make you feel better, not worse. Why the long face?”
The smell of hot, salty food fills the air in the bustling restaurant—steamed dumplings, pork buns, and sticky rice. My stomach growls and demands indulgence, but I set my menu on the table with a sigh. “I just remembered I have to be in a dress in a few days. I mean, assuming that a dress is appropriate for your event?”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. “You can wear whatever you want.”
I groan. “You can’t invite a woman to your family’s Thanksgiving and not give her an idea of the dress code. Left to my own devices, I’d prefer to spend Thanksgiving in yoga pants and a sweatshirt.”
He holds up his hands. “Point taken. A dress is probably fine.”
I nod. “So there you go.”
Locke’s eyes darken, unreadable. “Greer, you look—” He seems to think better of whatever he was going to say and starts over. “You don’t need to change anything about yourself.” He says it so quiet and genuine that I believe him.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. I feel my cheeks heat, and I train my eyes on the laminated menu under my fingers. “So, what’s good here?”
“Everything.”
I look up and catch the full force of his smile. It’s a smile of permission. One that says you’re already enough just the way you are.
“Okay,” I tell him, because letting myself like him is the guiltiest pleasure of all. If we’re already indulging, why not go all-in? “Everything it is.”
Our waitress arrives a minute later, drooling over Locke as she takes our order, though he doesn’t seem to notice. When she’s carried away our menus, Locke leans forward over the weathered wood tabletop. His gaze rakes my face, dragging heat over my skin.
“So, back to the fuck spectrum.”
I break into a startled laugh. “What?”
“You brought it up earlier. What is it?”
“I mean…” The fuck spectrum is what I’d like to do with you. I close my mouth and open it again. Very, very bad, Greer. “Where to
