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I bet he’d kiss like the world was ending.
I bet it would befantastic.
He held up his hands in front of him in defense, as though he’d interpreted my stunned silence as outrage. “Or, don’t kiss me! That’s also fine! You see, this is why I proposed you pretend laugh with me. While fake kissing is a time-honored way to throw pursuers off the trail—and is also fun ashell, let’s be honest—we don’t know each other. And since you seem rather angry with me, I’d assumed you would rather pretend laugh with me than pretend to kiss me.”
He spoke so rapidly I could barely keep up. I had the unique sensation of listening to a record player playing music at twice its normal rate of speed. I stared at him, stupefied. Obviously, there was no chance I was going to kiss this guy, despite my moment of temptation. But laughing? When nothing was funny? That seemed almost as absurd. I took a semester of acting in college, but it had been my lowest grade at the University of Chicago. It was true what they said about accountants: most of us didn’t have much of a sense of humor; fewer had any acting skills.
“I don’t think I can pull off a convincing fake laugh,” I admitted.
“Sure you can.”
“Not when nothing’s funny.”
He looked confused. “There’s nothing topull off. You just…laugh.”
His sincerity seemed so genuine that all at once, I knew he was telling me the truth about this bizarre situation. I didn’t think I could actually help him, but what did I have to lose by trying besides a few extra precious minutes?
“Fine,” I muttered. I took a deep breath and then, a moment later, I did my best attempt at a fake laugh. “Ahahahahahahahaha!” I cried out, even as I stood rigid as a board with my handsballed up into tight, anxious fists at my sides. “Oh, you areso funny!” I added loudly, for good measure. I sounded ridiculous. I hoped none of my coworkers could see or hear me. This was not how someone gunning for a partnershipbehaved.
As I continued fake laughing, the guy just stared at me. “You weren’t kidding,” he said softly, incredulous. “You reallycan’tdo this.”
I glared at him. “I told you.”
“You did,” he conceded. And then a moment later, he threw his own head back—andlaughed.
To anybody passing by, you’d think the man I was standing with had just been told the funniest joke he’d ever heard in his life. His whole body vibrated with it, his hand floating in the air as though to touch me on the shoulder, only for him to snatch it back at the last minute and clutch at his stomach.
Fake it may have been, but this man’s laughter was infectious. Before I knew what was happening, I was laughing, too—at him, at the ridiculousness of this entire situation—without him even needing to prompt me. Without pretending. Everything felt light inside, in a way I seldom felt during tax season, and had never in my life felt with a stranger.
After a while, our laughter subsided. A moment of silence passed between us, punctuated only by the ubiquitous sounds of Chicago traffic. The guy looked over his shoulder, in the direction he’d originally come from. Whatever he saw this time, or didn’t see, made his posture relax.
“I think they’re off my trail for now.” He looked at me again. “Thank you. I owe you one.” And then, abruptly: “Are you an accountant, Amelia Collins?”
“How…how do you know my name? And what I do?” I stammered. A taxi drove by us, leaning on its horn and splattering mewith a faint spray of dirty snowmelt. I ignored it and brushed a stray lock of hair out of my face as I tried to get my shit together.
Mr. Fedora Asshole shrugged. “I’m good at spotting accountants.” Before I could ask him what he meant by that, one corner of his mouth quirked into something that was half smile, half smirk. I absolutely didnotnotice how full, and soft, his lips looked when he did it.
And then, laughing a little, he inclined his head meaningfully at the pile of papers from my briefcase that still lay in a soggy heap at my feet. I followed the direction of his gaze and immediately felt like a fool.
“The header on that paper saysWyatt Foundation Tax Filings,” he pointed out, unnecessarily, as a sharp gust of wind made the ends of his trench coat flap around his legs. “The footer saysAmelia Collins. I don’t know much about…well. About much. But I do know that words liketax filingsandaccountantsort of go hand in hand. And I feel it’s reasonable to assumeAmelia Collinsis you.”
Damnit, I shouldnothave found his voice sexy when he said all that. I couldn’t help it. It was a deep voice, rich and smooth, and as sinful as silk sheets. Even when he was accusing me of something as mundane as being an accountant.
“Yeah,” I admitted, even more flustered. “That’s me.”
He flashed me a full smile—there and then gone again, like mist at dawn. I shivered for reasons having nothing to do with the cold night air.
He cleared his throat. “I gotta go. But, since you are correct that this collision was partially my fault—”
I scoffed. “Partially?”
He shrugged. “If you’d not been so distracted, you probablywould have seen me coming. But since, yes, I am partly to blame…”
He knelt down and scooped up the papers that had fallen from my briefcase. He stood up, then handed them back to me.
They were soaked through now. Useless. I took them from him anyway, the tips of my fingers brushing up against the sides of his hands in the process. He wore no gloves; his hands were like icicles.
It must have been even colder outside than I’d realized.
