Page 55 of Professional Consult

I frown.

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, Barb had to take care of something, so she dropped me off.”

I shift my attention back to my paperwork, finishing up the last of the reports. Lexi pulls up a chair to my desk so that she’s facing me.

The last thing I need is her pretty face distracting me.

“Is there something you need?”

“I was hoping that tonight you could help me with the typewriter?” She clears her throat. “If you’re busy, though, I get it.”

I hate that I’ve become such an asshole. That Lexi, who’s done nothing wrong, is scared to even approach me. I was the one that gave her use of that damn typewriter. I should be happy to help, but that means spending time with her.

Which means wanting her.

“Yeah, I was about to head home. Just give me a sec.”

Come to think of it, it was stupid that I let her borrow it, to begin with. We live in an age of computers and laptops. Typewriters have no place here.

“You know, that typewriter is old. You should get a laptop.”

“But I want to use the typewriter.”

“Why?”

“It was the first thing that ever made me feel like maybe I could write.”

How can I argue with that?

“I’ll take a look at it.”

It takes an unholy effort to control my breathing so that she doesn’t see the effect she has on me. Hopefully, she won’t notice the sweat beading on my brow and the slight tremble of my hand.

I know it’s awkward that I avoid looking at her, but whenever I do, I imagine those pouty lips wrapped around my cock again. How good it felt. How I’d do anything to go even further.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I suck in a breath, trying to vacate all thoughts of Lexi from my brain.

Yeah, that’s never happening.

My concentration is shot when she’s around because all I can think about isher.

When I’m finally relieved of duty at the end of my shift, I still have a mountain of paperwork that needs to be done. But that will have to wait.

I can’t believe she’s still talking to me. I made a point of being brisk with her. Building a fucking wall so high an Olympic athlete couldn’t scale it.

But she doesn’t seem to notice it. She’s quiet. Reticent. She doesn’t glare or mouth off at me. She accepts it.

I wish she would get riled, because it’s easier being angry than feeling so guilty.

As soon as we get home, she pulls out the typewriter and sets it on the table.

I insert the ink ribbon and put in a test paper, clicking away at the keyboard. When it appears to be working, I put in a fresh sheet.

“Seems like everything is in order.”

“Awesome!”