Since she’s directing that question to me, I answer with, “Platonic would imply we were friends.” I slide Barrett a look. “I bet Fox can’t even spell the word platonic.”
He flinches—just the slightest pull of his mouth and narrowing of his eyes—before recovering. What a wilting lily. So he had a few typos. Who cares? It happened to me when I first started and, don’t tell anyone, but it still happens on occasion.
“Damn. I was hoping I could leak a few photos to Twitter of you two being cozy.” Mia purses her lips. “You could explain to your fella it’s for the story. North seems reasonable.”
“North?” Barrett asks with a token amount of derision. “You’re dating a guy named after a direction?”
“I’m dating a guy named after his great grandfather who was a duke.”
Idiot.
“Since you were reading up on cheaters and lack of heat in the bedroom, I question if you’re dating him at all.” Barrett crosses his leg, resting his ankle on top of one thick thigh. The hand resting on that thigh boasts an expensive, stylish watch.
He’s arrogant and annoyingly good looking. Shouldn’t he be better suited to a hoodie and jeans? What gives him the right to wear trousers and button-downs with such grace?
“Perfect. Perfect,” Mia says. Barrett and I tear our eyes off each other to regard my boss, who is smiling with dollar signs in her eyes. “You two are delightful. Now get out. I have a conference call.”
Barrett and I leave Mia’s office, and I do him the courtesy of waiting until the door is shut behind me to lay into him.
“Do not bring up my love life in this office again, Fox.”
“Honey, for the next few months I am your love life. Besides, you were the one researching your own love life in this office. I happened to notice. I’m a noticer.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Sure, it is. I just said it.”
I growl my frustration and pivot on a heel, but I feel him follow close behind me.
“Hang on.” He follows me as I storm for my desk. When we’re behind my lone privacy wall he catches my upper arm and turns me to face him. “I’m sorry.”
I arrow a look at his hand on my arm and he lets go, holding both palms out in front of him in “I surrender” fashion.
“I’m sorry I gave you shit about your boyfriend, West.” I roll my eyes and he corrects with, “I mean South. Southwest?”
“Get out of my cubicle.” It’s a weak plea. He’s exhausting.
“North. I’m sorry I insulted your relationship with North.” He lowers himself onto the corner of my desk again and folds his hands together, giving me a look that’s almost...caring.
Weird.
“If you seriously think he’s cheating on you, you owe it to yourself to kick him in the balls. You’re too beautiful and too intelligent to put up with shit like that from any guy.”
Since I don’t know what to do with what might have been a compliment intermingled with sage advice, I say, “I put up with shit from you. Should I not?”
He gestures to himself. “I’m your job. You have to put up with me. You get paid to put up with me. But unless you’re North’s hired honey, I suggest you spell out what you will allow him to do and what you won’t. Guys like that, you give them an inch they take all one hundred yards.”
I shake my head to realign my thoughts. I never said North was cheating on me, or that we were having problems—even though we are, that was something my temporary co-worker assumed.
“Why do you have this job anyway? Can’t you retire on your NFL paychecks?”
“If I expect to have a microphone in my hand again in the future, it’s going to take some really good press. And the approval of a really strong woman.” He dips his chin. “You’re good for my rep, Kitty Cat.”
I snort. “Well. They don’t pay me enough to put up with you, but I’m a professional. You’d do well to remember—whatever your reasoning—that this is your job, too. Next time you set fingers to keyboard, take the time to review your shoddy spelling before you get us both fired.”
I wait for the wisecrack. The smartass remark. None comes. He slides off my desk and walks to his cubicle where he shuts his laptop, stuffs it in a black leather shoulder bag, and...leaves.
I tell myself that he deserved it. That being kind to someone who is unkind to almost everyone is a waste of time.
I feel badly about my assessment on and off throughout the day. Barrett may behave like a cocky ass, but “unkind” doesn’t exactly describe him.
Chapter 4
Catarina
North didn’t have to work late last night or tonight. I’ve shown up at his place both nights and I didn’t find any evidence of another woman. No lipstick on North’s collared shirt, no left behind scarf or compact. Besides, would he actually invite me over if he’d had another woman here?
Granted he could exclusively go to her place...
Stop. It.
I’m not doing this. I’m not letting my own article and Barrett Fox’s assessment fuel a conspiracy theory.
I sip my wine as North clears the dishes from a simple pasta meal that was oh-so-satisfying. It helped that he bought a baguette from my favorite local bakery. That was thoughtful. I’m stuffed, but reach for the final nub in the bread basket, dragging it through olive oil seasoned with grated parmesan and freshly cracked black pepper before polishing it off.
I’ve been choosing my timing carefully and now, with full bellies and nothing on the agenda, it’s prime time to talk to North.
“I’ve been thinking”—I pause to drink from my nearly empty wineglass—“about us.”
“Oh?” He doesn’t look up from stacking our plates in the dishwasher.
“Yes. About our little dry spell.” I say it in a cute way so that he doesn’t think I’m dissatisfied. Though...I am. Six weeks without sex with the person you’re in a relationship with seems excessive.
“Are we having a dry spell?” He clears the empty bread basket and silverware and moves back to the kitchen. It’s a gorgeous setup, with black cabinets and sleek, charcoal granite countertops. Him in it isn’t half bad, either...if he wasn’t being this obtuse.
“Do you remember when we met?” I stand and refill my wineglass as I talk. “You couldn’t keep your hands off me.”
“That’s normal, Catarina. There are seasons in every relationship.”
“Don’t you find me attractive?” I strike a pose in my pencil skirt and blouse, pointing the toe on one of my shoes. I’m wearing sky-high heels and enduring the mother of all blisters on my pinky toe for my efforts, yet he doesn’t seem the least bit turned on by my footwear.
“Sweetheart, you’re beautiful.” He comes to me and lowers his lips for a kiss before resuming cleanup duty. The kiss is similar to the hundreds of others I’ve received from him but lacks something.
“You don’t feel the need to...look elsewhere?” I try. “For companionship?”
He frowns, slowly closes the dishwasher door, and stares at me for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then he presses a button, and the machine begins its quiet, purring cycle.