the men I meet are either old, sick or married.” The image of a certain studly computer installer popped up to call me a liar. Okay, so Jeff Fischer was gorgeous and I hadn’t noticed a ring on his hand. He was also young and sarcastic and I hadn’t exactly wowed him with my charm. “I don’t need another man in my life,” I said, stabbing a fork into my chalupa for emphasis.
“Just think about it,” Darla said gently.
I nodded. “I’ll think about it.” But thinking and doing are two entirely different animals, aren’t they?
I RETURNED TO WORK AFTER LUNCH and discovered the cubbyhole had been ransacked. My computer processor sat in the hall, my transcription machine balanced atop it. My monitor occupied my chair and half a mile of cable coiled around the doorway like so many snakes prepared to wrap around my ankles.
I picked my way through this maze and stepped into the room, only to be confronted with one of the finest specimens of male gluteus maximus I’ve ever been privileged to see.
The butt in question wasn’t naked, more’s the pity, but the expertly tailored slacks molded around it did a nice job of showing it to advantage.
“What are you staring at?” The rest of the man in question emerged from beneath my desk.
“Jeff! Uh, hello.” I moved over and pretended to be interested in a stack of computer manuals. “Was I staring?”
He pointed a screwdriver at me. “You were staring. And smiling.”
“I’m just delighted at the prospect of finally getting the new transcription system installed.” I kept my eyes on the manual, pretending to be reading, but I was really trying to identify the cologne he was wearing. Something spicy, faintly exotic…
“I didn’t know you read Chinese.” He’d risen and was looking over my shoulder.
I glanced down at the booklet in my hand. Rows of Chinese characters danced across the page. I snapped the booklet shut. “I was studying the diagrams.” I pointed to the snarl of cables streaming out from under my desk. “Don’t you think you should do something about all that?”
“Your usual sunny self, I see.” He kneeled and began fiddling with something under my desk. “And here I thought we were going to be friends.”
I didn’t want to be friends with Jeff Fischer. He was too young, too good-looking, too full of himself, too male. Men were not at the top of my list these days. I kicked at the tangle of cables. “How am I supposed to get any work done with everything scattered all over the place like this?”
“I’ll have it all back together in no time.” His head disappeared beneath the desk once more.
“With this new system, you’ll be faster than ever.” He reached up and patted the desktop. “Have a seat and keep me company.”
I backed toward the door. “Maybe I’d better leave you alone to do your work.”
“I work better when I have a pretty woman to talk to.”
I resented the flutter that ran through my stomach. As if a compliment from a smart-ass like him meant anything. I told myself I was only staying because if I went back up front Joan would put me to work labeling urine samples, or filing test results or some equally odious chore.
So I took a seat on the desk, next to a canvas satchel that spilled tools across the desktop. It wasn’t the most comfortable position. My feet didn’t touch the ground, which left my legs swinging practically in Jeff’s face. Why had I decided this was a good day to wear my chartreuse-with-white-polka-dots slip dress?
“That’s better.” Jeff’s gaze traveled from my exposed knees to my ankles. “Very nice.”
He grinned in a way that might have been lecherous on someone who didn’t already look like an Eagle Scout. “How old are you?” I blurted.
He arched one eyebrow. “Old enough to know my way around.”
“No really. How old?”
“I’m twenty-six.” He said it as if he was announcing a winning Lotto number. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you.” I inched farther away from him.
“I prefer experienced women.” He went back to operating his screwdriver.
Experienced? Was that anything like a used car being “experienced”? Or did I look like a woman who’d been around the block a few times? “What makes you think I’m experienced?”
“Let’s just say you don’t strike me as a recent escapee from a convent.”
“Someone told you I was divorced. That Michelle—”
“No, I didn’t know that. I was thinking more about the hickey on your neck.”
I clapped my hand to my neck so hard the skin stung. Heat washed over me and I knew my face was bright red. “I do not have a hickey!” Where would I have gotten one? I hadn’t been intimate with a man since…. A sick feeling washed over me as I recalled my prelunch wrestling session with Dr. P. The bastard.
Jeff stood and dropped the screwdriver into the tool bag. “It’s not that noticeable,” he said. “It’s just above your collar, right…there.” His finger brushed across my skin, a feather touch that made every nerve ending vibrate with awareness. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure, but all that did was draw his spicy, exotic, masculine scent into my lungs. I stared at the V of naked chest showing in the open throat of his shirt and fought the insane urge to plant a kiss right…there.
Hormones. That had to be it. They were like ants. They’d been fine, not bothering me at all in the year since Steve had called it quits. Content to go about the business of doing whatever hormones were supposed to do in the body. And then the stud here had disturbed them. One touch from him and the hormones had come to life like an anthill stirred with a stick. And they apparently weren’t going to calm down anytime soon. I wouldn’t be safe around any being with a hint of testosterone. The next thing I knew, I’d be leering at old men in elevators and flirting with the teenager behind the counter at McDonald’s.
“I have to go.” I slid off the desk, scattering three screwdrivers and a socket set in my hurry to escape.
I fled to the ladies’ room and contemplated my red face in the mirror. Wincing, I pulled back my hair and studied the purpling love bite. “That no-good Dr. Lech. I ought to—”
“Phoebe, hurry up in there.” Michelle pounded on the door. “I have to go.”
I grabbed my purse and groped through it, in vain hope I’d find a scarf to cover the evidence of a definite lapse in judgment. But I didn’t wear scarves. I searched the supply cabinet mounted over the toilet. Nothing but half a box of tampons, two cans of hair spray, six rolls of toilet paper and a pink toothbrush. Short of wrapping toilet paper around my neck, I was stuck.
I opened the door and sidled past Michelle, my head down so that my hair fell forward to cover the side of my neck. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Do we have any bandages?”
“Sure.
