He slips the appendage into his dress suit pocket on a crooked smirk. “You don’t want me to call you Doctor like everyone else?”
No.
I want him to call me a multitude of things none of which are professional or required the years of higher education I happily sought.
“Nah.” My smile unconsciously softens. “After all, we’re gonna be a lot closer than I am with literally everyone else.”
Bronx’s honey-brown eyes widen while his teeth sink into the thin lower lip I want to trace with my tongue.
Huh.
Perhaps getting laid one weekend a year isn’t quite as healthy as I tell myself it is.
That data um…may need to be reevaluated.
“I brought you a bagel from Banneker’s Bagels,” Bronx announces, bag in his possession being inched towards me. “When I was informed of the time regarding this early engagement, I thought that maybe if I came bearing breakfast – a meal that you’ll have to be skipping to give me a hands-on tour of the facility – you might hate me a little less.”
“I don’t hate you at all.” The statement is said in such a swoony tone I can hardly believe I was the one who said it.
Clearly, it wasn’t really me.
Must’ve been a ventriloquist they mistakenly let on the property.
Or perhaps I am turning into a cyborg and someone needs to fix my programming.
It’s my turn to clear my throat in hopes of banishing the misplaced flirtation.
And it is misplaced.
Making Pixar eyes at the man who’s probably going to be capable of charting my bathroom usage by the time his assignment is over, is an irrational action.
Like coming into work hungover the day you’re supposed to test out a noise-canceling device.
I’m smarter than that.
I need to act like it.
I need to not turn into some idiotic schoolgirl just because the captain of the lacrosse team needs me to tutor him.
I’m better than that.
Bronx offers me another bright beam.
Okay, I think I am, but my body chemistry is all over the place right now.
As I transfer the bag from his grip to mine, I question, “Did Brandon tell you these were my favorite?”
His head tilts slightly to the side in amusement. “Brandon?”
Horror hits me like a ton of bricks to the chest.
“Number Four’s first name is Brandon?”
“Don’t tell him I told you!” I bite on a stern finger point. “That’s client, guard…security…escort confidentiality or whatever!”
“Not sure that’s a real thing,” Bronx lightly laughs prior to winking, “but I’ll keep it our little secret.”
Urges to have him winking for other reasons prompt me to get us physically moving in order to counter them. “Why don’t we get this tour going so that I can resume my own workday?”
Bronx immediately nods. “Can we start with the perimeter?”
“Sure.” My attention lowers to focus on opening the bag. “We can start wherever you like.”
“Perfect. I prefer to work my way from the outside in.”
His poor phrasing has the bag practically leaping out of my possession.
He swiftly stretches out his hand to catch it, effortlessly saving the object from crashing to the ground, which only further adds reasons for my face to be this flush.
A cold shower on my lunch break sounds like a good idea.
A long, cold shower.
A long, vibrator-assisted, cold shower.
I can carve time out of my schedule for that I’m sure.
Rearrange its normal allotted time frame by about twelve hours.
Do paperwork in the middle of the night instead.
Concern cakes Bronx’s face at the same time he returns the bag back to me. “You okay, Dr. Rothwell?”
“Mmhm,” the hum poorly escapes while I attempt to retrieve breakfast from the sack. “And remember, it’s Blake.”
“Blake.”
“So,” I resume my previous interrogation, “what else did my brother tell you about me besides the fact that this is my favorite place for bagels?”
“Your brother didn’t actually tell me that,” he casually informs, collecting my attention once more. “Your file did.”
The announcement makes it easier to remember that I’m a job.
That no matter how good he looks or smells or sounds that I’m just a job.
That there is no attachment to me other than ensuring the millions I’m sure he’s been promised, make it to his bank account.
Keeping me safe is the experiment he needs positive results for not keeping me turned on.
I pull out the blueberry bagel with strawberry cream slathered between the halves. “Did it also tell you my favorite flavor?”
“In a way.”
“Meaning?”
“Your consistent ordering of that very combination every Sunday morning between the hours of four a.m. and seven a.m. indicated it was your favorite.”
Unsure of whether to glare or grin at that detail leads me to take a large bite so that I don’t have to decide.
Trying to make appropriate social calls this early on an empty stomach probably isn’t going to go well.
“Your routine outside of the facility wasn’t difficult to follow. You are the very definition of a creature of habit. Same restaurants. Same stores. Same transportation paths.”
“I know the definition of the phrase.”
“Taking you outside of this building wouldn’t be a challenging task.”
“You’re saying, I’m easy.”
The phrasing ignites a displeased expression. “I’m saying your lack of spontaneity isn’t safe.”
“And I’m saying being predictable is practical.” I have another bite of the bagel a bit more viciously for effect. “Eliminating the uselessness of basic bullshit such as where to eat, when to eat, and who to eat with, allows for that time to be better spent doing things that are actually productive. I prefer efficiency to the inefficient carefree behavior most people waste their time pretending they have.” My teeth chomp into the breakfast bread again on a grumbled, “Do you know who Banneker was?”
“Um…the original bagel owner?”
“Benjamin Banneker was a Renaissance man. Farmer, scholar, author, mathematician – although not necessarily recognized to the extent he should be for it – scientist and an inventor. Among his numerous contraptions was our country’s first fully functioning clock. Banneker Bagel’s pays homage to an underrated genius by mimicking his drive in the form of their innovative breakfast creations. They infuse flavors and ingredients to enrich and enhance your morning while simultaneously reminding you of a legend by decorating the shop to reflect a solar eclipse – something he accurately predicted in 1789 – and naming the treats after specific points of time such as,” the half-eaten bread product is lifted towards his face, “3:07 I.E. my favorite.” My tongue gives my lips a quick lick to swipe away the strawberry cream cheese that managed to get smudged on them. “I.E. something that I can always count on being ready by the time I show up and still available on the mornings I am running behind. I like Banneker’s for the dependability offered as much as the history. Has it crossed your mind that maybe my sense of spontaneity might exist, yet has managed to be overshadowed by my preference for productivity and stability being at the forefront?”