Junk Mail(12)

For my business, it’s definitely a good thing. Josh knows what he’s doing and how to help me build my brand. Still, my nerves were totally out of control going into my meeting with him yesterday—a professional meeting in a café—yet it felt too much like a date for me to keep calm.

Plus, with how cocksure he came off the first time we met at the office, I expected to be dealing with a bullheaded negotiator, but that was hardly the case. He made everything seem so easy, steering the conversation like the perfect dance partner. He led us smoothly but firmly through the agenda while offering plenty of room to accommodate my questions and suggestions, even throwing in a joke here and there. He’s easy to talk to, smart . . . and don’t even get me started on how attractive I find him.

“So this big fancy business deal. Do you think it’s going to work out?”

Gram’s voice is kind of flat, but I appreciate her trying to show some interest. It’s not that she’s not proud of me and all the work I’ve put in, it’s just that it’s all she’s heard me talk about for the last year and a half.

“I really think it might,” I say, then mentally add if I can just ignore how completely hot Josh is, a task that seems more and more impossible by the minute.

If dating your coworker is a big no-no, making a move on the man in charge of the business deal that could make or break my company is completely out of the question. But how do I just totally write off the chemistry between the two of us? I stare down at my bright red toes as if they will somehow reveal the answer to me.

Can’t I just have my own ham hock and eat it too? Adulting is so hard sometimes.





Chapter Nine


Josh



Friday is chest-and-triceps day, my personal favorite muscle group to hit. I save the best workout for the end of the week to add a little icing onto the cake that is the two days of freedom ahead of me. I could be biting into that cake by now too, if it weren’t for my slow-ass lifting partner.

From my vantage point as Brody’s spotter, I have the pleasure of watching every bead of sweat form on his forehead as he pounds out reps on the bench, huffing and puffing the whole time. Dude’s been out of the gym for a few measly days with his little gluten incident, and suddenly he’s acting like he’s never picked up a barbell in his life.

“Come on, slacker. Pick up the pace,” I tease.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy my best friend is no longer on the brink of death by bread, but I was sort of looking forward to a solo weight-lifting session after work. The plan was to pop in my earbuds and get in some quality detox time.

As if the misdirected dick pic wasn’t enough of a weight on my shoulders this week, we’ve got our biggest corporate event of the year tomorrow night. That’s right, instead of plopping my ass on the couch with a beer and a movie on my Saturday night, I’ll be wining and dining the company’s corporate partners. So a little time to myself to decompress was in tall order.

No such luck. Instead, I’ve spent the better part of an hour spotting Brody and evading his questions about yesterday’s lunch meeting. And as hard as it is dodging his nosiness, it still doesn’t count as a workout.

Brody lets out an enormous grunt as he finishes off the last rep of the set. “Shit, dude,” he says between pants. “I’ve gotta be done now, right?”

“You wish. You’ve got one more set left.”

Brody’s groan of displeasure is so loud that several of the girls in the yoga class across the gym turn their heads in our direction. Probably to make sure that sound didn’t come out of some dying animal. Nope, just Brody.

I nudge his shoulder with my knee. “Your girlfriends are staring, dude.”

While Brody doesn’t love chest-and-triceps day, he is the number-one fan of the all-female yoga class that’s held here on Fridays. I don’t exactly mind the view myself, to be honest. I’m not some pig who’s trying to pick up girls while they’re getting in a workout. But if they’re going into downward dog right in front of me, a guy’s not exactly gonna cover his eyes.

But today, for what has to be the first time in history, I’ve got no interest in the legging-clad asses on display across the gym. There’s a different ass on my mind lately. An ass that, unfortunately, I’m supposed to be keeping it professional with. Not that my dick seems to be getting that message. And with the way Peyton looked at lunch yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she and my dick are teaming up against me.

But it’s not just my junk that’s Team Peyton either. I have to keep my brain on the world’s shortest leash to make sure my thoughts don’t go wandering back to her.

I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about the two of us that just clicks. Not once during our lunch together did I have to scrounge up some small talk or feign interest in something she was saying. Talking to her felt like second nature. I can’t say that about anyone I’ve chatted up on a dating app.

I intended it to be a business lunch, so I have no idea why it felt like a date. The best kind of first date too, the kind you only see in the movies, where there are no awkward pauses or drawn-out silences. The kind where the couple is laughing and smiling and teasing each other like they’ve been doing it for years. That was Peyton and me.

I’m centered again by the clang of the barbell hitting the rack.