Then he reaches out and slides his fingers over my hair. It’s back in a low bun—my most respectable hairstyle—and he’s gentle enough not to mess it up.
“You’re worried,” he says.
I take a deep breath, eyes closed.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I know it’s probably nothing, and I’m just doing this to myself and getting all worked up for no reason, but it’s—you know,” I say, all one fast breath.
“It was a bad year,” he offers, still gentle.
“Mostly.”
I swear, I can hear him smile.
“You found me at the worst time,” I tell him. “Usually the meds work a lot better and I’m only half a mess, not the whole thing.”
“Month’s almost over,” he points out. “Then Meckler will be gone and you’ll be calm, cool, and collected at all times.”
That makes me snort and finally open my eyes. I have to tip my head back a little to look up at him from where I’m still sitting in my office chair.
“Silas,” I say, seriously. “I’ve got terrible news for you about that.”
“You mean you’re anxious all the time?” he teases.
“Afraid so.”
Then he gives me a long, slow look that starts at my glasses and travels down my body: button-down white shirt, long chain necklace dotted with freshwater pearls, gray pencil skirt, knees crossed, black pumps. By the time he finishes, I’m blushing a little.
“I can live with that,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses me.
At first I freeze, because kissing for real in my office feels… wrong. I don’t know why faking it to piss Evan off didn’t and this does, but I’m not interested in splitting hairs.
But the door’s basically closed and it’s just a quick, gentle, relax it’ll be fine kiss, so I kiss him back, quickly and gently. Then a little harder. Then a little deeper and suddenly it’s not that kind of kiss any more: now it’s open-mouthed and exploratory, headed toward filthy. My chair creaks as he puts his weight on one arm, leans in. My fingers find his hair. His skim down my thigh and find the hem of my skirt and he draws a line along it that feels like a question.
“Silas,” I say, pulling back enough to talk.
“I came to distract you,” he says. Brushes his lips against mine again. “Is it working?”
“We can’t do this in my office,” I remind him, even though yes. It is working. I am currently very, very distracted, even though I glance at the clock behind his head.
“Hm,” he says, like he’s thinking, and then his thumb is on the inside of my thigh. Half an inch above the hem, which is nothing—it’s basically my knee—except he’s stroking it back and forth and it. Is. Working. “Is there a copier room?”
“Yes, and someone’s probably making copies in it right now,” I say.
“A supply closet.”
“More like a cabinet.”
“There’s always the stairwell,” he says, all low and suggestive and rumbly. “No one ever uses it. Except Linda when she needs to get her steps in.”
“We’re not going to any of those places right now,” I say, and I’m torn between breathless and laughing, because this is ridiculous and hot and I have to turn down these delicious offers and I don’t want to. I’d much rather get railed in a stairwell than go to this meeting, that’s for sure.
“You’d be very distracted,” he points out, but he stands up straight, takes his hand off my leg.
“I know,” I tell him, and I squirm a little bit in my chair for… reasons. Silas watches me, leaning against my desk.
“I can distract you some other way,” he offers, laughing a little. “Linda’s best friend’s granddaughter is on a competitive dance team in Blacksburg and you wouldn’t believe the backstabbing.”
I rock back a little in my chair, drumming my fingers on the armrest, and try to smile even though I feel like fifty pounds of pigs in a ten-pound sack, or whatever that phrase is. Anna Grace used it once and it sounded pretty good.