Fluffy(28)

“That totally explains the pain!” I gasp. Whew. An excuse.

His thumbs and index fingers delicately grasp the edges of my glasses, pulling them forward, giving me time for a deep breath that fills me with the scent of Will. Instantly, he’s in soft focus. He seems more solid, the sharp edges blurred, making it easier for me to quell the growing storm inside me.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much,” I lie.

“Good.” I can’t really see his face, but I can read his body language. Hear his breath. Smell his aftershave and the soapy scent of a man who showered an hour ago, lime and mint mixing with something earthy, something cotton. He’s close enough to smell coffee on his breath, and I have to stop moving, stop inhaling, stop the world because it’s spinning faster than I can think.

Slower than I can feel.

His head tilts. “You look different without them.”

“Most people do.”

“I can’t decide which I like better.”

My heart stops beating.

“Which do you prefer?” he asks me, handing the glasses over, his fingers grazing mine.

I can’t answer until I find my heart again. It’s wandered off into 2009 somewhere. Every inch of skin, however, is firmly in the present.

“I prefer to see clearly,” I announce in that haughty tone again, the one I use whenever I’m covering for the fact that I am only pretending to be a functional adult who knows what the hell she is doing with her emotions.

“Don’t we all?” he asks in a tone that says there’s more to that statement.

“Yes,” I say slowly, unable to look away. “Yes, I think we do.”

I didn’t know you could live for nine thousand years and not blink.

Somehow, that actually happens to me, standing in front of my new desk on my first day as Will Lotham’s contract employee.

And then his phone rings.

Spell broken.

In a rush to answer it, he grabs the phone out of his pocket, losing his grip. For a former quarterback, he’s remarkably clumsy as it flips and flops in his hands, falling in one big arc– Straight into my cleavage.

Quarterbacks have a physical precision that moves beyond exceptional eye-hand coordination and well into the realm of sheer magic. It’s more than alchemy. More than discipline and practice. It takes muscle memory and endurance and raises them a level–one that Will demonstrates as he stops his hand, fingertips mere millimeters from diving between my breasts to grab his phone.

Magic, though, bleeds.

You cannot conjure the divine and ask it to do a simple task. Once unleashed, it seeks a challenge. It does not respect boundaries. Spells are notorious for breaking the laws of physics. Why would a power source stay within the confines of lines drawn by others who fear a world they cannot see or understand?

Will’s body is pure magic. Reflexes like that don’t come from following rules.

They come from playing with fire.

The cold metal case with a glass face makes the soft, warm valley of my boobs feel impersonal, like a speculum in the wrong place. A simple error, born of a fumble.

No big deal, right?

His eyes are glued to my chest, the phone vibrating between my girls in an insanely, embarrassingly pleasurable hum, his jacket lapels moving up and down, wide and narrow as he breathes, so close to me that I feel his warmth. With a steady hand I reach into my shirt, pull out his phone, and start laughing.

Hard.

Everything is a blur at normal distance, but it comes into sharper focus when I look at him this close. I’m nearsighted. You have to be an inch or two from my face before I can see all your edges, all the lines that separate you from the rest of the world. Objects blur until the perfect range makes them distinct.

That range is different for everyone.

But we all have a focal point for clarity.

Finding yours is a life journey.

“Nice catch,” Will says as I hand him his now-warm phone. It stops ringing. Is it my imagination or does his hand linger for a few seconds longer than is socially polite?

“That is as athletic as I get. Good to see them finally do something constructive,” I say, looking down at my breasts. “They’ve been nothing but a source of agony for most of my life.”

“Agony? I think you mean pleasure.”

His phone rings again.

Literally saved by the bell.

“Conference call,” he whispers, turning his back to me, a move designed to help him keep his conversation private but that serves better as a way for me to watch his ass without being observed.

I have been working with Will Lotham for a grand total of fifteen minutes and all I can think about is his mouth and his ass.

I am doomed.

I am so doomed.

When someone is this doomed, there is only one sane response.

I leave.

Packing up my purse, phone, and keys, I wave to Will as he talks on his boob-warmed phone. I get a flicker of acknowledgment from him that reminds me of the high school hallway.

Enough to say Hey, I know you.

But not enough to say Hey, you’re important.





8





The drive to 29 Maplecure Street takes exactly three minutes. I don’t even have time to decompress from that conversation with Will before I’m smacked in the face with more Will. This isn’t his childhood home. That address I’ve memorized and will know until the day I die.