Chloe: What if it was?
Dean: I'd ask what color panties you're wearing.
Chloe: You can probably guess.
Dean: Black?
Chloe: Yeah. I only own black panties.
I wipe my hands on my jeans. Stand. Move to my underwear drawer. Pull it open.
It's a dozen pairs of the same thing—the black bikinis with cream trim. The ones I bought on sale at American Eagle.
And the lacy thongs I bought at Victoria's Secret.
I grab my phone. Snap a picture of the drawer.
I must be going out of my mind. I shouldn't send this to Dean. It's a yes. A please continue your flirting. A please come over and fuck me senseless.
But that is what I want.
He makes me feel good.
And, God, I need that. I need my body aching for his. I need him touching me.
There.
I hit send.
My blush spreads to my chest. Heat goes with it. Down my torso. Straight to my core.
Dean: Fuck, Chloe. You trying to make me hard?
Maybe I am. I don't know. I have no idea how to do this flirting thing. If I can even do this flirting thing.
I'm opening Pandora's box here.
But I have to do it.
Chloe: Are you?
Dean: Yeah.
My tongue slides over my lips. We can't do this. He's my boss. I need the job.
But I need this too.
Chloe: Can we talk like this?
Dean: Can we? Yeah. But we shouldn't.
Chloe: Oh.
Dean: It might shock you, but I don't always do what I should.
Chloe: You're my boss.
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: Do you think about that? About ordering me around?
Dean: You sure you know what you're getting into, sunshine?
Chloe: Positive.
Dean: Yeah. I do.
Chloe: Me too.
Dean: You like me bossy?
Chloe: Sometimes. Other times… You annoy the fuck out of me.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: Doesn't that bother you?
Dean: No.
Chloe: Why not?
Dean: I like the fire.
I like it too. Dean makes me feel a lot—irritated, frustrated, needy, amused, curious, entertained. Some of it is bad.
But it's always something.
When I'm with him, I feel more than the dull, empty numb that set in with my diagnosis.
No one else does that to me.
Chloe: Do you think about me?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: I think about you.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: I should probably go before we get into trouble.
Dean: Probably.
Chloe: What about you?
Dean: What about me?
Chloe: What are you wearing?
Dean: Jeans. White t-shirt. Black boxers.
Chloe: Are you mocking me?
Dean: Like this? Never.
This is it. If there's a line, I'm officially crossing it.
But I don't care.
I have to do this.
Chloe: Prove it.
There's quiet for a long moment. The sounds of Dad and Gia's conversation flow into my room. Something about Mark. About whether or not Dad thinks she should marry him.
I flip open my laptop. Open my streaming app. Play my favorite grunge album.
It isn't sexy, exactly, but it feels right.
There.
My phone buzzes with a picture message.
It's a mirror selfie of Dean. From his chest to his knees.
He's wearing black boxers.
Only black boxers.
And he's hard.
The soft fabric is straining against him.
Fuck. My sex clenches. My nipples pang. He's the only person who can do this to me. Who makes me feel like a woman with desires.
And, God, my desire…
Dean: What are you wearing?
I flip the light on. Move to the floor length mirror across from my bed. Take a picture.
Send.
Dean: Fuck, Chloe.
Chloe: You asked.
Dean: Overestimated my self-control.
Chloe: I thought you were going to go out to pick up a woman.
Dean: I thought about it.
Chloe: And?
Dean: Thinking about you was more fun.
Chloe: You touched yourself?
Dean: Not yet. But after this I will.
I shouldn't do this.
But the reasonable, logical part of my brain is gone. Every thought is screaming Dean.
I roll my jeans over my hip. The one with the shooting star tattoo. The tattoo he traced that night that started everything.
Or maybe it finished everything.
I'm not sure.
I angle my cell just right. So the pic shows the tattoo, my skin, and my black panties.
There. I snap the photo. Hit send before I can chicken out.
Dean: You trying to kill me?
Chloe: Maybe.
Dean: You're succeeding.
Chloe: You're alone, right?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: So, if I ask you to take off those boxers?
My cheeks flush. I've never done this before. I've never asked a guy for a sexy picture. With my ex, I was too shy. And we weren't the type to talk about sex. To drag it out.
It was more rote. Get in, come, cuddle, get out.
It was good, but not like this.
Not something that set me on fire.
Dean: Are you asking?
My gaze shifts to the letter on my desk. Three weeks until I meet my fate.
Three weeks to seize life by the balls.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I tap a yes. Go to hit send.
A knock on the door startles me.
My fingers slip. My phone hits the floor. "Yeah?"
"Gia wants to go out for ice cream," Dad calls from the other side of the door. "You want to come?"
Fuck, what a question.
I pick up my phone. Tap backspace until the text is gone.
I want to keep flirting with Dean.
I want to get his clothes off and his hand around his cock and his thoughts on me.
But my trance is broken.
Reality is sinking in.
Dean is my boss.
I need to be smart about this.
There's a line between fear and caution. I'm not sure which side I'm on. Only that I'm not pushing this forward.
"Sure. Give me five," I say to Dad.
"Not sure Gia has five minutes in her," he calls.
"Two minutes," I say.
He makes an uh-huh noise and moves down the stairs.
I tap a reply to Dean.
Chloe: I have to go. Family. I still live at home.
Dean: No shame in that.
Chloe: Yeah. But Dad knocking kind of ruins the mood.
It's bullshit. I'm still flushed and wanting.
I'm still desperate to get his clothes off.
Chloe: Next time.
Dean: Until then, sunshine.
Chapter Fifteen
Chloe
Monday, I leave early enough to beat traffic. I spend my morning at a coffee shop on Abbot Kinney.
I drink endless Earl Grey.
I sketch mock-up after mock-up.
I push thoughts of Dean from my head.
We nearly talked each other into phone sex. And now we're supposed to work together like everything is normal. I have to sit next to him like I'm not thinking about pinning him to the wall and unzipping his jeans.
Like I didn't spend all of Sunday wishing I hadn't chickened out.
When nine thirty rolls around, I toss my tea and walk the dozen blocks to the shop.
Dean is sitting behind the counter working on a mock-up. His expression is intense. Focused. That other Dean.
I knock on the door.
He looks up at me with an easy smile. Motions it's open.
It is. And the AC is set to Arctic Chill. As usual.
"It's freezing in here." I slide my hands into my pockets. Shift my weight between my heels.
He nods, effortlessly casual. "You want my hoodie?"
"Sure." I bite my lip. Borrowing a sweater is a girlfriend thing. An I like you thing. But I guess that particular cat is out of the bag.
He knows I like him.
But does he like me? Does he want a fuck or a friend with benefits or a girlfriend?
My stomach twists as he disappears into the office. A moment later, his footsteps move into the main room. He slings his navy-blue hoodie around my shoulders.
It's warm and soft and it smells like him. Like his shampoo. Clean and masculine and beachy.
His fingers brush my neck as he pulls his hand to his side. "You need tea or something?"
"No. Sorry. Do I look—"
"In the clouds? Yeah. Shake it off, sunshine. Our client's here in ten."
"Ours?"
"You're my shadow now. This is a water color tattoo. New technique."
"A female client?"
He chuckles. "Yeah. She's bringing her boyfriend to hold her hand."
"Oh." It's common. Women usually bring moral support. Men tend to come alone.
His bright eyes find mine.
I stare up at him. "So, we're…"
"I was drunk and stupid. Don't worry about it."
"Oh. Right." I study his expression, but it doesn't give me a clue to his intentions.