“Hmm,” he considers. “You can use it as a noun, a verb, an adjective.”
I nod, excited. “There’s a reason fuck’s my favorite word.” I grin as I start to find my footing. “In real life,” I say, as if this isn’t real life, too, “I have a healthy appreciation for the fuck spectrum.”
“Lots of possibilities,” he says, and it feels like flirtation.
I shift in my chair. Even talking about the word fuck with Locke makes me imagine him stripped out of those button-down shirts he wears so well and running through the, well, spectrum with me. Which is something I cannot, should not want.
As if he can read my mind, he raps a knuckle on the table. “Actually, speaking of breaking a sweat, I know what you can do to feel better when you’re stressed.”
Heat gathers in my core, and I clench my thighs together. My voice comes out breathier than I intend. “If you were about to suggest something to do with the word fuck, I’m not sure that’s on the table right now.”
Locke smirks at me, and his eyes dance with amusement. “I meant you could work out.”
I blow out a puff of air. “Right. Obvs. Who doesn’t like to work out?” Once I’m on a roll, I can’t help myself. It’s like awkwardness shortcuts my mouth’s ability to talk to my brain. “Actually,” I say, “I’m really into fitness.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“Fitness lunch in my mouth.”
He shakes his head, then leans back to allow our waitress to set steaming platters of food on the table between us.
“Tell you what,” he says when the waitress leaves. “Let’s start small. A fifty pushup challenge.”
“Like, fifty pushups total?” I give him a skeptical look as I fill my plate with food, but I know exactly what he means.
Locke grins. “Fifty pushups a day.”
I drop my eyes to his arms. They’re really sexy biceps, as biceps go. I have no doubt he’s well acquainted with workouts and pushups and other forms of exercise-related torture.
My lips twitch into a smile. “Somehow I think this is going to be way more of a challenge for me than for you.”
“I’ll do it with you,” he promises, and my mind fills with the picture of his arms—hell, his whole body—as he levers himself over me and… “It’ll help distract you from how much you miss me.”
Record scratch.
What?
“Miss you?” I ask. “Where are you going?”
“San Francisco. I’m meeting with the WanderWell team there. You forget?”
Yeah, I did, and the realization hits like a punch. “You’re leaving?”
“Don’t worry,” he says, misinterpreting the look on my face. “I’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving. So, what do you say?”
I lift a pork bun, hot and greasy and delicious. “Look how good I’m gonna fitness in my mouth.”
“That’s a yes, then?”
“Sure, Locke.” The food melts on my tongue, and my heart sings a little. “I accept your pushup challenge. Why the hell not?”
6 Locke
The steel and glass skyscraper that houses WanderWell’s San Francisco office spears up into a cloudless blue sky, its commanding facade shimmering with possibilities and an aura of technical mastery. We know what we’re doing here. Trust in our expertise.
I smile as I breathe in the smell of asphalt and fresh air and push toward the building’s front doors. The sunshine is a break from Seattle’s damp season, and my morning coffee’s both hot and delicious. Already, the caffeine spikes through my veins and whispers promises of productivity and delight.
Yeah. Not a bad way to start the day.
I give my name to the receptionist and wait for David Brinkley, the Senior VP of Experience, to come get me from WanderWell’s office space on the tenth floor.
Four months ago, WanderWell acquired GlobalGo, a niche travel management company that specialized in concierge-style booking support. It was a perfect branch to fold into WanderWell’s operations, but Curt decided to keep the San Francisco office in its current location so we didn’t need to relocate employees. The challenge now is figuring out how to integrate their user experience and content writers with the Seattle team, and how to make sure we’re applying the same principles and practices into our work. Hence my visit. Selfishly, it’s also a taste of the travel that I love so much.
I stand in the lounge area to wait, arranging myself across from a low, rectangular fireplace set into a stone wall that reaches to the lobby’s lofted ceiling. My cell phone buzzes from the messenger bag slung over my shoulder, and I dig it out with a grin.
What the hell? Why do my arms hurt so much?
No one’s text messages can make me smile the way Greer’s do. Even the grouchy ones.
She’s thinking about me, and it feels like a gift.
I’m assuming you did your pushups? I send back.
The fireplace crackles at my back. Gas, but still. It throws off enough heat to warm my shoulders as I wait for her reply.
On my toes! She throws in an emoji of an arm making a muscle for good measure.
And you survived.
Only thanks to my recovery ice cream.
I smirk at the phone. God, this woman. I’m not quite sure how I got lucky enough to have her sit across from me every day, but not a day goes by that I’m not thankful for my job because it was the way I met her.
“Lachlan Mills.”
I look up at the sound of the voice ringing across the lobby and shove my phone into my bag. At only around forty-five, David Brinkley’s one of the founders of the GlobalGo. He negotiated a leadership role as one of the conditions of the acquisition, along with a crap ton of stock shares. No doubt he’s rolling in the dough, but you wouldn’t know it from his outfit. David strides toward me with his hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He’s topped
