There are so many reasons I cannot date someone in the office. What if it doesn’t work out? Then I’d have to see her every single day, make awkward conversation over tea in the kitchen. That would be the end of my safe place at work.
It was silly to think that my first foray into dating after a four-year hiatus would end in a happily ever after.
“Teamwork is brilliant,” I say unconvincingly. But it doesn’t matter because Emily is ushering Jo from the office with a hand on her shoulder.
On the way out, Jo casts a look my way, her eyes big and imploring, her smile sad and wistful as she mouths, I’m sorry.
My heart winces again as I mouth back, Me too.
Once she’s out of view, I fall into my chair, groaning in abject frustration.
Typical.
No wonder there’s a huge market for hating shit. Because horrid shit happens.
I drop my head into my hands.
But there’s no time to wallow. There’s a meeting to prep for.
And, maybe, a job to research.
I straighten and turn to my laptop, then click on the job opening I applied for here at HighSmith, the one for which I wrote a smashing letter. The one where I can work remotely.
Yes, please.
A note on my employee portal says I’m still under consideration.
That’s good.
Remote work was appealing already, but I’ve a sinking feeling the tension will ratchet up from here.
The tension of wanting what I can’t have.
I dive into meeting prep, blotting out the rest of this place as best I can until there’s a knock on my ajar door.
I glance up, and my lips twitch in an unbidden smile. Jo stands in the doorway, tucks a strand of chestnut hair behind her right ear, a faraway look in her pretty blue eyes.
Is it regret?
“Hi,” I say hoarsely, unable to think of anything else. I take off my reading glasses and set them on my desk.
“How are you?” Jo asks, kind and inviting, but still unreadable.
I’m unsure how to proceed, but I choose quickly. I opt for honesty. “I’ve been better.”
She lets out a breath, perhaps of relief. “Same. Same here.” She swings her gaze behind her then back to me. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
She steps inside, presses a hand to the door, and shuts it.
Oh, how I wish I could close the distance and kiss her properly, like I planned to do Friday night.
Instead, I stay in my chair, maybe so I don’t take her into my arms.
“So, yeah. Fate’s a bitch,” she says, pushing out a laugh as she tucks her hair behind her other ear.
“Put that on a plaque and sell it,” I quip.
“Yeah,” she says, clasping her hands, twisting her fingers nervously. Her lips curve into a rueful smile. “It never occurred to me that we might . . . work together.”
“Me neither.”
“I mean, you seemed like . . .” She laughs softly, perhaps abashed. “I had this whole idea in my head that you were a librarian.”
I chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “Did you now?”
She rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice. “You were my sexy librarian.”
A dangerous rumble works its way up my chest. I like those words far too much. “I like that you thought of me that way. I like to think I would make quite a dashing one,” I tease. It’s so tempting to slip back into flirtation with her.
Perhaps it’s tempting for her too?
“Yes. The glasses really do it for me.” She leans against the wall by the door. “I’d have shown up every day, checking out books from you.”
“Asking for recommendations?” I ask, my tone as light as I felt Sunday night.
“Yes. I’d have been all, Do you have the newest Sophie Kinsella or Jane Green?” she asks, all pouty.
“I’d have personally escorted you to the stacks,” I say. “Good choices, by the way.”
“As long as they’re not drawn from social media feeds,” she says, a teasing callback to our first encounter.
“That’s my only hard limit,” I say.
“Good to know about hard limits.” Her eyes spark with gratitude, then naughtiness. “Hopefully, there are some dark corners in this imaginary library of yours.”
My chest heats. My pulse spikes as we fall into a tantalizing game of make-believe. “My imaginary library has many dark corners perfect for deep and heady kisses,” I say in a low voice.
A voice I shouldn’t use at work.
One I definitely shouldn’t use with her.
But instead of stopping, I stand. Walk around the corner of my desk. Take a step closer to Josephine Brennan.
We’re mere feet away. “Do you have librarian fantasies, Jo?”
She tilts her head, shrugs lightly. “Apparently, I do. I suppose it usually goes the other way. Sexy women librarians with glasses, hair in a bun until we let it loose. But I pictured you that way—minus the updo. Then, when I saw you with those reading glasses, it kind of fried all my circuits.”