Brooke

I'm so glad I took that five minute bedroom break earlier, because if I hadn't, I'm sure I would've grabbed Nate's sexy ass, thrust myself up against him, and begged him to stop torturing me.

I still haven't moved from the spot. My phone's going off with this alert, that task, this reminder, and I can't pick up my arms to grab it.

It's rule number one in the handbook of work rules. Don't get involved with anyone you work with. I don't break rules. I follow schedules, I go to bed on time, I keep myself professional and composed (on the outside)...but Nate makes it feel like it's okay when things aren't perfect. That it's okay to break a rule here and there.

But this rule...maybe it wasn't okay.

Not just because we work together. Not just because he's the boss's son. Not just because he's my friend. But because maybe he's not ready. I want to force my mind to understand that, but the sick feeling of rejection wafts in the air. I'm not his type. He's already voiced that. I'm also bossy and lippy and get stressed out way too easily. I can't help the thoughts that flit through my mind that maybe he's not ready for someone like me.

"It's okay, Brooke," I say out loud, hoping the words help, but my eyes get watery, and my stomach twists and turns that even though he said everything was fine, things won't be the same after this.

***

He said it would be normal, but he's a big ass liar.

The flight home was torture. I sat next to a guy who had a stain on his left pant leg and I couldn't stop staring at it, and Nate had his laptop up and headphones in the entire time on the other side of me. I tried to joke around, talk about sweat tacos under the FOB's armpits, but he just grunted, "Great. Another thing I need to fix." Geez...someone needs to drink milk instead of piss for breakfast.

I also left fourteen messages on his phone, because I'm trying to get some damn work done. So after no response, I sent him a detailed calendar of all the stuff he has to do this week, and to tell me if he needs me on any of the appointments, or if he'd like me to take over some of nitty gritty stuff. Nothing. Nada. What a pain in my ass.

Joshua calls at 5:45 Monday night, exactly when he said he would.

I drudge up my chipper voice, which shouldn't be so freaking hard. "Hello?"

"Hi, Brooke. How are you?"

I tap the home keys on my computer, not really typing anything, but giving myself something to do so he thinks I'm incredibly busy and should appreciate the time I give him. It's all part of the plan.

"I'm great, Joshua. It's good to hear your voice." The words come out, and I thought I'd mean them, but I'm not sure if I do.

"I wanted to make sure we're still good for tomorrow night. Seven o'clock?"

Second date. The fun date. Yes, please, I need a fun date. "You're in my calendar," I say with a smile so maybe my voice will sound enthused.

"Excellent. I'll see you then."

"Can't wait."

We hang up, and I pull out my task list and put in Wash Rockstar Jeans. Then I clack in a few other routine things to keep my calendar filled to the brim with distractions up until 7:00 tomorrow.

But when I put in my date itinerary, staring at the 10:15 slot that says Have an epic kiss! I feel like I could very well check that off already, and it would be one-hundred percent true.