“Will you be able to work with me here?” I asked, scrutinizing his office.
“No problem. Do you need a table?” He turned a contemplative frown to his desk and workbench, both of which were still covered with papers and various machinery debris. As he looked around his office, he pushed his fingers into his hair, sending it into disarray and drawing my attention to the muscles of his bicep.
The man had to work out all the time. He had to.
Unbidden, my attention moved over the rest of him. He was in his usual jeans, Converse, nerdy T-shirt attire, but the pants looked new. They were dark blue, and as a heterosexual woman with a pulse, I appreciated how they rested on his narrow hips, fit the curve of his backside and muscled thighs.
“I actually work best on the floor,” I offered, feeling oddly hot.
And, bonus, the floor was free of clutter. And free of Matt.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He shrugged, scratching his neck. “Do you mind if I play music?”
“Fine by me.”
We both assumed our positions, him at his desk in front of his wall of monitors, me kneeling on the floor, spreading my papers out in story order. “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” by The White Stripes played over his speakers and I smiled to myself, but said nothing.
I loved The White Stripes. And I loved Jack White as a solo artist. Matt couldn’t have picked better music as the soundtrack for the afternoon.
I sensed Matt glance at me a few times over his shoulder, but I studiously paid him no attention, pleased that I was already engrossed in my work instead of gawking at his physique and bobbing my head lightly to the music.
For a time, we worked, saying nothing. Part of the time I moved the papers around on the floor, part of the time I wrote sections on my laptop. I glanced at my computer’s clock just as the song switched from “Seven Nation Army” to “I Fell In Love With A Girl” and was surprised to find forty-five minutes had passed.
Pausing my work, I closed the laptop and placed it next to me. I stretched, arching my back and leaning from side to side.
Matt spun suddenly in his office chair to face me, unsmiling, his arms crossed.
“I have a serious question for you,” he said, sounding serious.
“Shoot.” I glanced at him briefly, turning my neck from one side to the other.
“If a woman wears a low-cut blouse—”
“Did you just say blouse?”
He blinked once, his expression growing flat. “Can I ask my question?”
“Fine. Blouse, low cut, what about it?”
“If a woman’s shirt is low cut, like a V,” he drew a V on his own chest, “such that a good amount of her cleavage—”
I snorted. Cleavage. Blouse. Matt talked like my grandmother. At least he didn’t say décolletage.
His lips became a tight line. “Well what do you call cleavage?”
“Tits? Breasts? Boobs?”
“Fine. Low-cut shirt, showcasing half a lady’s breasts, is it okay to look at said breasts?”
“Yes.” I nodded once.
“Really?” The question was an octave higher than his usual baritone.
“Yes. Really. Unless she has a date, then no.”
“What? Why?”
“Because she’s wearing the low-cut shirt for her date—not for you—and you don’t want to get punched in the face. But if she’s there on her own and wearing something revealing, she wants people to look.”
“Huh.” His eyes lost focus as he stared beyond me, absorbing this information.
“You find that surprising?” I leaned forward to switch two sheets of paper, rearranging the timeline.
“Yes. I assumed it was rude.” After a moment, he shook himself and I felt his eyes on me again.
“Didn’t you ask your ex these questions?” I wondered aloud.
“No. We never talked about stuff like this.”
“Really?” Now I was surprised. “Wait, stuff like what?”
“Man to woman stuff. What women or men want in general terms. We were both inexperienced when we met, so I’m not sure we knew.”
“Oh.” That made me frown. “Well, didn’t she wear sexy clothes for you? And, more importantly, didn’t you ever wear sexy clothes for her?”
“No. She didn’t. And what is your meaning? Did I wear sexy clothes for her? What sexy clothes can men wear?”
“Suits.” I grinned at him. “Finely tailored suits are the equivalent of a sexy black dress to women, or lingerie.”
His eyebrows ticked up and his eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yep. It takes effort for a man to wear a nice suit. Just like it takes effort for a woman to dress up.”
“So . . . it’s the effort? That’s sexy?”
Crawling on my hands and knees, I picked up my notes from the floor, careful to keep them in order. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
Again I felt his eyes study me before he said thoughtfully, “You’re already really sexy. I feel sorry for anyone who has to resist you in a black dress.”
That made me laugh, especially the abstract tone of voice, like we were discussing AI Learning Theory, but it also made my neck hot. Suddenly, I was distinctly aware of how small his office was, and how I was currently positioned on my hands and knees, and how—if he stood and unbuckled his belt . . .
Whoa.
Settle down.
That thought process sure escalated quickly.
Suppressing the unbidden surge of sexy suggestions, I tossed him a mock-distrustful glance but couldn’t quite lift my gaze to his. “You’re just saying that so I’ll make you more bread.”
“You caught me.” Matt’s tone mirrored my mock-seriousness. But I also noticed his smile was weird, stiff, and he was blushing just slightly. The light shade of pink heating his cheeks made me wonder if he hadn’t realized what he was saying, what his words sounded like, or what they revealed of his thoughts, until after he’d said them.
“Hey, look who it is.”
I tore my eyes from Matt, finding Dr. Merek leaning against the doorjamb, eyes on me, a small smile tugging his mouth to one side.
Sitting back on my ankles, I returned his grin. “Hello.”
“What do you want?” Matt’s tone was less than happy.
Dr. Merek’s gaze moved to Matt briefly, narrowed, then returned to me. “Did you get everything you needed for your article?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but didn’t get a chance.
“She did,” Matt answered for me.
The older man inspected us both with unveiled surprise. “So you’re here finishing up?”
“Yes. Almost finished.” I gestured to my stack of papers. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“We might go see a movie after,” Matt said, causing me to send him a surprised glance over my shoulder. He ignored my probing look. “Then dinner,” he added.
This was news to me.
Matt’s eyes remained fixed on his colleague and both men were quiet for a protracted moment while I glanced between the two of them and attempted to decipher their odd staring contest.
Eventually, Dr. Merek cracked a smile and nodded subtly. “Oh, by the way, Greta is looking for you, Matt.”
“Oh?” Matt stood, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. “Did the NVIDIA chip come in?”