“Let’s leave in, like, five more minutes,” I propose, gazing up at him with some bedroom eyes of my own.
“Don’t tempt me.” He gives my butt a warning squeeze. “Let’s go, Goldilocks.”
“Wait, one thing.” I grab his sweater before he can put it back on. “I’m taking this. I’m . . . cold.”
He shakes his head, amused. “And you call me a stalker.”
Chapter 24
There’s a bouquet of blush-colored peonies on my desk when I get to work on Monday.
I squint at them, confused. It’s not my birthday. No work victories to celebrate. Who would send me flowers?
Ben. It has to be. A teasing nod to my drunken flower rant. Very funny. They’re beautiful, I’ll give him that. Peonies are my favorite. Who has he been talking to? I shake my head as I lean forward to smell them, and that’s when I figure it out.
They’re fake. Incredibly realistic-looking, but definitely fake.
I howl in amusement. There’s a small white envelope peeking out from underneath the vase and I extract the note with shaking fingers.
Hassle-free. Require no work or effort. Will never stink and will live forever. Also: nice striking beautiful, like you.
I beam at his note like a lovesick teenager, then scurry to my window and peer across the fishbowl. Ben’s at his desk, eyes glued to his computer screen. I start to wave, then feel like a moron when he doesn’t look up. I grab my phone instead and hit CALL.
I watch him look at his phone, then glance out the window. I wave, and he breaks into such a massive, genuine grin, I want to slingshot myself across the atrium.
He answers as he rises out of his chair and heads to the window. “Hey, you.”
God, he has a sexy phone voice. It’s deep and throaty and totally obscene.
“Hey, yourself. So, flowers, huh?”
“I took a chance,” he says, and I can both see and hear the smile in his voice. “All part of those traditional rules of courtship you so politely requested. You like them?”
“I love them. They’re perfect. Thank you.” You get me like no one else does.
He blinks in surprise. I think he was expecting sarcasm. “So, good surprise, then? That’s a relief. Could’ve gone either way.”
I laugh and feel a flush sweep up my neck. I can see the fire in his eyes from fifty yards away. It’s a weird thing, watching someone while you talk to them on the phone. Like the strangest form of foreplay.
“I’m not even going to ask how you found out I like peonies.”
He smiles. “I have my ways. Let me take you to lunch today.”
He looks at me expectantly and I take a moment to appreciate the view. He has one arm drawn tight across his chest, making his biceps appear even more ginormous than usual. His legs are planted in a stance that should be displayed in the dictionary under swagger. He looks mouthwatering.
“I wish I could, but I have a lunch meeting. Dinner?”
“Of course I have a dinner meeting.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Can’t wait that long.”
“Flatterer.” I squint at him and tap my finger against my lips.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Touch yourself. It feels like forever since I touched you.”
A full-body shiver ripples through me. “It’s been two days.”
“Well, it feels like two years.”
He’s standing stock-still, eyes locked on me. I’m so close to the window my breath is fogging up the glass.
We are so going to get caught.
He lifts his chin. “Meet me at the south elevators.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
We have an entirely nonverbal conversation in the span of about five seconds. I turn and rush out.
“Where are you headed?” Stephen calls as I dash past him.
“Oh, just . . . to Cups! I’m grabbing a coffee, I’ll be right back.”
“Great, can you get me one? I’m dying for a—”
“Text it to me!”
I practically sprint down the hallway until I reach the elevator bank. No Ben. I turn in a circle, confused. The elevators are closer to his office than mine. How could I have beaten him?
A door opens behind me and I spin around. Ben pulls me into the women’s room, locking the door behind me. I start to protest but he cuts me off.
“I scouted it out, we’re good.” And then his mouth is on mine.
We fall against the door, letting out matching sighs of relief. The next couple of minutes are a soundtrack of panting breaths, sliding lips, fingernails clawing against fabric. I slip my arms underneath his suit jacket and fill my hands with the solid flexing muscles of his back. This is my new favorite place, right here.
I splay my hand against his chest and feel it rise and fall. “You know, this is exactly what we said we weren’t going to do.”
“I lied.”
A laugh bubbles out of me as we swap happy smiles. We’re a couple of grinning fools. I tuck my head into the cradle of his collarbone. He smells like crisp linen and Ben. I breathe in and it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in two days.
“Honestly, I worried you’d take one look at me and regret everything that happened this weekend. And based on how you freaked out on me, it’s not farfetched.” There’s insecurity in his eyes and I hate that I’ve put it there.
“Well, I don’t regret it. Although I have been regretting certain other things . . .” I gaze up at him with my best wanton seductress look.
“And those would be?” His eyes are looking a little pornographic themselves.
“Not getting to see more of what you’re hiding under these perfectly pressed suits.” I trace a meandering path up his chest with my fingertips and tug on his tie. He’s vibrating with tension. “How long until someone knocks on this door?”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already. Sorry, it was all I could come up with on short notice.”
“Pity. We should probably go before we get caught.”
“Probably.”
I fist my hands in his shirt instead and drag him closer. I feel him hard and heavy against me and I could scream for wanting him. A war’s being waged on his face, an epic battle between desire and restraint. The Battle of the Bulge versus Boy Scout Ben.
“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be taking a sick day.”
“Will you just loosen your tie like I always watch you do? Please? It’s my favorite part of the day.” I barely recognize the sound of my own voice. It’s hoarse and husky as a porn star with strep throat.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Okay, so this has officially become a problem. If I’m not going to see you tonight, when will I?”
“Well, you haven’t exactly taken me on a real date yet.”
“And what do you call the shooting range? That was some of my best work.”
“My mom always told me to find a guy who would treat me like gold. I’m not sure I would describe firearm instruction as like gold.”
“You’ve obviously been dating the wrong guys.”
I smack him.
“I’m kidding. I wouldn’t dream of disappointing Beverly.” He takes my hands in his. “Kate, are you free to go out with me tomorrow evening on a real date?”
“I believe I am.”
“Good. Then it’s a date.”
“Good.”
We grin at each other, two teenagers playing hooky. I fuss with his tie, which has gone askew from my groping. Oh, who am I kidding? I’ll find any excuse to touch him. I’m seventeen again and want to make out by the lockers—or, you know, up against the door of Hart’s seventh-floor women’s restroom.
“I don’t want to go back,” I whisper ag
ainst his mouth.
His eyes flame. “You want to meet here again this afternoon?”
We make another bathroom date for three o’clock.
* * *
When I get back to the office, Stephen raises his hands in question. “Where’s my coffee?”
“Oh, um . . . the line was too long. I’ll go back later.”
He shoots me a funny look as I retreat to my office and shut the door. I’m overheating again, so I strip off my jacket and fan myself with a file folder—then glance out the window.
Ben’s watching me and wearing a big smile.
Chapter 25
Monday passes in a flurry of texts, mostly silly, unimportant things that make me giggle: screenshots of our step counts to taunt each other; an update about a lingering smell in one of the Dirksen committee rooms; Ben’s observations of the shameless nose picker in the office two windows below mine; a story about a new intern in his office who quit after just two hours of answering the phones. It’s all the normal, mundane parts of the day that are only interesting to others who are living it, and it’s ridiculously fun to have someone to share it with.
I’m also discovering how thoughtful he is. On his way back from meetings, he texts to see if he can grab me coffee or food. He makes me promise not to stay late since he can’t walk me home tonight. He congratulates me on some positive press Carol received for a bill she’s cosponsoring. It’s wonderful. Also, weird. The evolution of our relationship is so improbable, I feel like I should buy a lottery ticket.
On Tuesday we’re both out of the office for large chunks of the day, which means no steamy bathroom trysts. Sad trombone. By the time I meet him in the lobby at six o’clock, I’m so eager to see him I’m ready to jump out of my skin. We’re not two minutes away from our building before he nudges me, dropping his mouth to my ear.
“Are we out of jail? Is the coast clear?”
I make a dramatic show of looking around. “I think so,” I whisper back.
He leans over and kisses me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do, like he’s done it a million times before. It’s short and sweet, the equivalent of a welcome-home kiss from a significant other—nothing like what I know he’s capable of—yet something about its inherent possessiveness makes me weak in the knees.
He takes my hand in his, interlacing our fingers. “Any ideas on where we’re going?”
The only hint he’s given me was a cryptic text I received late last night asking me if I had cowboy boots, to which I’d flippantly responded:
Me: What kind of Tennessee girl do you think I am? Of course I own cowboy boots.
“A country concert? Some sort of live music?” I guess like this is the first I’ve considered it and didn’t spend my day obsessively googling which bands are in town.
“Hmm,” he says mysteriously. “I guess you’ll find out.”
“Should I wear my cowboy hat, too?”
His eyes light up. “Yes, absolutely. Thank you for thinking of that.”
I’m laughing as he drops me off at my building.
“I’ll be back to collect you in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
He gives me another kiss before he leaves, only this time he adds a little butt squeeze, and I’m floating on air.
I get ready as fast as I can, taking my hair down and refreshing my makeup, but I’m stymied when I try to figure out what to wear. First, I throw on my standard country concert ensemble: jeans, denim jacket, cowboy boots and hat, but when I look in the mirror it resembles a denim-on-denim fashion crime not seen since the likes of Justin and Britney circa 2001. I could wear a dress—I’d love to look a bit more girly since all he ever sees me in is work attire—but I’m afraid I’ll freeze to death in the still-brisk April air. I decide to text him.
Me: Will we be inside or outside?
Ben: Inside. And no more hints.
It’s the only nudge I need, and I quickly replace my jeans with a flirty white sundress I haven’t worn in forever. When I pair it with the jacket, boots, and hat, I think I look pretty darn cute.
I’m fidgety with excitement and nerves by the time he walks into the lobby. When he spots me his stride falters, and he closes his eyes and gives his head a firm shake before coming the rest of the way. I’m so glad I wore the dress.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply once he’s standing in front of me. He leans over and kisses me lightly, his hand automatically finding mine at my side. There’s nervous energy in his kiss, same as mine.
“So, better than nice, then?” I tease when he pulls back.
“Nice, striking, beautiful, and gorgeous. And any other words you want to throw in there.” It’s his low, scratchy voice, and he’s looking at me like I’m something new.
“We’re matching too.” I finger the collar of his white button-down. “No green this time?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes. Besides, some stalker’s been stealing my clothes.” He grabs my hand and tows me toward the door. “Come on. We’re gonna be late.”
He leads me a little ways back up the street in the same direction we just came from work. The looks we’re getting from passersby are priceless, both of us bedecked in cowboy boots and cowboy hats like a couple of country bumpkins. We’re as out of place on the streets of DC as ballerinas at a monster truck rally.
After we squeeze past a guy who gives me a leering once-over, Ben scowls and tucks me under his arm. “You’d think these morons would know better than to look at you when I’m standing right here.”
I can’t resist teasing him. “God forbid they look at me. What are they thinking?” I bump my hip against his.
“Not funny,” he mutters. “You don’t know what I deal with.”
“Well, can you blame them? I’m a redneck woman.”
“You’re a country cutie, is what you are.”
“I’m Backwoods Barbie.”
“You’re a hot little hillbilly.”
We’re laughing as he stops abruptly in front of a glass door, and when he opens it for me, I know just where we are: It’s a dance studio, one I pass every day walking to and from work. I gawk at him. We’re going dancing?
He laughs when he sees the shock on my face. “I knew you’d never guess this. I’ve passed this place a million times but never had a reason to go in. They have group classes a few times a week apparently, and they pick a different style of dance each time, like the tango or swing or whatever. When I called and they said they were doing country-western this week, I thought it was almost too perfect.” He grins his boyish grin. “Surprised?”
Stunned, more like. “I never would have guessed,” I say, my voice a little unsteady with emotion. I can’t believe he came up with a date this charming on only a day’s notice. It seems I’m destined to be surprised by this man over and over again.
We take a look around, the interior much larger than it appears from the street. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors surround us on three sides and a parquet wooden dance floor spans the center of the room. Additional private rooms line a back hallway. A woman who must be the owner or instructor waves in greeting and heads toward us as Ben takes charge.
“Hi, you must be Clara? I spoke with you on the phone. I’m Ben, and this is Kate.”
She’s a sixty-something woman, her hair in a tight gray bun, and she moves gracefully as she shakes our hands. Yep—definitely the instructor. I watch her take Ben in, sizing him up, and I want to laugh. She probably doesn’t get many giants in here looking to square dance.
She turns to me, smiling warmly. “Wonderful. So are you looking to learn how to dance for a special occasion? A wedding, perhaps?”
I laugh nervously. “Oh no. This is just for fun.”
“She’s being shy,” Ben breaks in. “We actually are considering a modern take on a line dance for our wedding. Thought it’d
be fun to get all of our guests out there, shake things up a little. Isn’t that right, honey?”
I slow-blink at him, the smile frozen on my face.
“She’s a bit nervous, all those eyes on her, you know,” he says to Clara in a confidential tone. “I thought taking this class might boost her confidence.”
I will kill him.
Clara beams, totally under his spell. This must be a new record—he’s charmed her in under ten seconds. “That’s just lovely! This is a great way to overcome stage fright. If you have any questions as you go along, just ask,” she says, patting my arm. “And if you schedule a private lesson, we could put together a routine specific to your wedding song.” She raises an eyebrow at Ben, totally bypassing me, the inept half of this duo. I take offense on behalf of shy brides everywhere.
She flashes me an encouraging smile before going to greet another couple. As soon as she’s a safe distance away, I seize his hat and attack him with it. “You are dead to me.”
He shushes me and makes an unsuccessful grab for his hat. “Don’t let Clara hear that or she’ll think our engagement is on the rocks.”
A few more couples trickle in, about ten of us in total, before Clara starts the class. “Country-western dancing is all about having fun. It’s informal, the music upbeat and traditional Americana. It won’t be as complicated as some of the dances we’ve learned in recent weeks.” Ben shoots me a wide-eyed look, like we’re already in trouble and behind on the syllabus, and I have to stifle an unladylike snort. “If any of you have ever been to a honky-tonk before, you’ll probably recognize some of the dances we’ll be doing tonight. The Texas two-step, the western promenade, and some line dancing.
“I applaud those of you who wore the traditional clothing tonight,” she continues, eyeing us approvingly. “Many of the dances incorporate heel and toe taps, so that will be an advantage for those of you wearing boots.”
Meet You in the Middle Page 24