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Her lips part, almost as if she wants to say something, and the air between us crackles with desire. But she settles for a smile and a nod.
“Goodnight, Ben.”
6
BAILEY
“And where are you today, little miss Bailey? Because you sure as hell aren’t here.”
I swivel around in my chair to find Ian Grace, a longtime staff writer standing in the doorway of my cubicle with a wide smile on his face. He’s been a mentor of mine since I started at the paper.
On my first day, he said that I looked like a lost little kitten and took me under his wing. He’s been a terrific friend and teacher ever since. If not for his encouragement, I might not have spoken when the beat writer spot opened up. He and his partner Thomas have been like family to me, and I couldn't possibly be more grateful for them both.
“I’m here. I’m fine,” I tell him.
“Your body is here. Your mind is not,” he replies. “You forget that I know you, kid.”
The staff meeting was as dry and boring as I figured it was going to be. As they always are. Not that I was really paying attention. My mind was consumed with thoughts of Ben and the kiss in the parking lot last night. No matter how many times I tried to push the memory away, my brain kept circling back to it. And every time it did, my face would grow warm and my apex would grow even warmer. It was quite possibly the most uncomfortable staff meeting I’ve ever had to sit through in my life.
“So, come on. What’s up?” Ian presses.
“Nothing. I’m just a little distracted this morning. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
It’s mostly true. Thoughts of Ben and our kiss had been floating through my mind all night long, fueling my fantasies. Those fantasies set my body on fire and wouldn’t leave me alone until I satisfied them. And myself. A couple of times.
“So, who is he?” Ian asks.
“Who is who?”
“This mystery man who’s keeping you up past your bedtime?”
My face grows so warm that I’m half-afraid it’s going to burst into flames. I quickly snatch my coffee mug and take a drink to cover it, but Ian is incredibly sharp. Nothing gets by the man. More than that, he's an incredibly gifted interviewer and knows how to get his interview subjects to admit to things they never meant to. He laughs and gives me a nod.
“Uh-huh. Thought so,” he says.
“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” I quote one of my favorite TV shows.
“Oh, I know plenty. And the fact that your face is a shade of red I’ve never seen in nature confirms it for me,” he teases.
“I think you missed your calling as an FBI interrogator.”
“They’ve got too many rules,” he says. “Besides, it’s not all my skills as an interrogator that make me the best. It’s my keen powers of observation.”
“What are you talking abo?—”
Ian steps aside and one of the mail clerks steps in carrying a massive vase of the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen. It’s a vibrant riot of color, and the fragrance is subtle yet beautiful.
“Oh my,” I say.
The clerk sets the vase down on the corner of my desk and smiles at me before turning and scurrying away to run her other errands. Before I can react, Ian leans in and snatches the card out of the middle of the bouquet.
“Hey,” I object.
He quickly pulls the card out of the envelope and reads the inscription, a slow, wolfish smile crossing his face. His eyes flick up to mine, gleaming mischievously.
“Here’s to waking up and following our passions. Meet me at the Velvet Lotus tonight at eight,” Ian reads. “And who is this Ben character, my dear?”
“He’s… he’s nobody,” I stammer, my face burning as hot as the sun.
