were supposed to suit up like penguins. So the funky socks were his way of giving the middle finger. And frankly, they were a talking point. A conversation starter. And Caleb liked talking to people.
“You know I only wear the tacos on Taco Tuesday.” He grinned. “Besides, how does my sense of fashion have anything to do with your inability to correctly name your body parts?”
“What do you want me to call it?” She turned her nose up but some of the bravado had disappeared. The pink flush in her cheeks didn’t match the defiant expression.
“How about you use the proper term?” They were alone in the elevator now, but Caleb continued to whisper as though there were people listening. “Pussy.”
Was it his imagination or did a tremor run through her? The pink turned from a sheer tint to bright splotches on her cheeks. “That’s highly inappropriate,” she spluttered. “And the proper term is vagina, not pussy.”
She blinked, as though surprised by her own words. Caleb grinned. “Did I succeed in getting the Prim Miss Hargrove to use a naughty word?”
“You’re a bad influence,” she said as the elevator came to its final stop. The doors slid open and she marched out ahead of him, her sensible low-heeled pumps click-clacking against the polished floor.
“You say that like it’s news.” He followed her, a step behind so he could watch her hips sway as she walked.
Her skirt wasn’t exactly tight fitting, but he knew for a fact that her shapely legs extended up to a pert backside. That beneath the crisp white shirt she hid a pair of perfect, bouncy breasts. That underneath all that spit and polish, the girl had a tattoo of a diamond on the side of her rib cage. He’d seen it once, during a team-building day when they’d been at a corporate retreat. She’d had on a basic black swimsuit that kept everything covered, but when she’d fallen off her paddleboard he’d caught a glimpse of it.
And ever since he’d been on a mission to find out more about Imogen Hargrove.
IMOGEN UNLOCKED THE door to the archive room and held it open for him, making a sweeping gesture with her hand as though she were leading him into a ballroom. “Now hurry up. It’s home time.”
Caleb chuckled to himself as he started hunting for the box of archived promotional materials. “You never did answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“About whether you had a date tonight.” He pulled the lid off a box and rifled through the contents. Nope, not that one.
“Why do you care about my love life?” She leaned against a steel rack that housed row after row of identical brown boxes. The way she folded her arms under her bust made the buttons strain on her shirt. “It’s not as interesting as yours.”
“Your love life isn’t interesting because you keep turning me down.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re all talk, Caleb. You make these pithy remarks and dirty little jokes but you haven’t actually asked me out. I’m not sure I would go so far as to use the C-word, but...”
“The C-word?”
“Chicken.”
Was the Prim Miss Hargrove calling his bluff? He raised a brow. “You sure I haven’t asked you out?”
“Nope, not once. And I know you have asked out other women in the office. Tiffany from accounts. Stella from payroll.” She ticked the names off with her fingers. “Bethany from the assistant pool. She was a temp, but I’m still counting it.”
“I had no idea you were keeping track.” That pleased him greatly. “Are you aware they all said yes?”
“I am. Seems nobody turns you down.”
“Except you.”
“I haven’t turned you down.” She clicked her nails against the metal shelf behind her. “Yet.”
“Yet.”
“You’re too busy beating around the bush to ask.”
“But you would turn me down?” He rifled through another box, acutely aware that he was being watched. “And stop staring at my ass.”
“Excuse me,” she spluttered. “I am not staring at your ass.”
She totally was. He could see her in the reflection off the thick poles that stabilised the shelves. “I should have HR write you up for that.”
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re all talk, no action. Face it, I could unbutton my shirt right now and you wouldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
Ka-ching! “Try me.”
He turned and leaned against the shelving unit, mimicking her pose. The crappy florescent lighting of the archive room did nothing to hide the delicious flush in Imogen’s cheeks. The colour spread all the way down her neck, and he imagined farther past the modest neckline of her shirt.
“It’s an expression,” she muttered.
“Now who’s all talk?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think I’m a chicken?”
“Free range, obviously. Possibly organic.” He grinned. “Definitely one hundred percent chicken.”
She licked her lips. Stalling. “There are cameras in here.”
“So turn the light off. Dad’s big on security but he’s too tight to spring for infrared.” He waited for her to back down. “No one will know.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the exercise?”
Exercise. Like they were talking about a bloody fire drill. “I can see with my hands.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “You’re so full of it.”
“Think that honour goes to you, Miss Hargrove.” He laughed. “You talk a big game, but the second I try to pull the trigger you’re coming up with excuse after excuse. Don’t worry. I’m disappointed but I’ll live.”
Her nostrils flared. This was how things always were between them—simultaneously wary and oh so interested. Truth was he hadn’t ever asked her out. Because he knew what the answer would be. But today she’d decided to play his game. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to question it.
“Ugh, I’m sick of men acting interested and then backing off the second any conversation happens.” She stalked over to the door and Caleb was sure she was about to leave. But then the light went off. “Am I really that boring?”
Holy shit. Was this happening? The sound of fabric rustling in the dark got him hard as stone
