Lori.

Working with Marcelina is like trying to tame a cat with a ruler – pointless, painful, and probably going to end with someone getting scratched.

The first sign that this is going to be a disaster comes on Monday morning when I plug in my earbuds. I'm not even playing the music that loud, but you'd think I'd committed a capital offense from the way she glares at me.

"Do you have to do that?" she asks, her voice clipped and annoyed.

I turn up the volume just enough for the bass to leak out.

"Do what?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose – a gesture I'm quickly becoming familiar with. Her signature 'God help me, I will murder someone' thing.

"The music. Some of us need quiet to concentrate."

"And some of us need noise to breathe." I start drumming my fingers on the desk, matching the beat.

Her eye twitches and I know I'm getting to her.

It's probably wrong how much I enjoy that.

I know I promised I would tolerate her for the sake of the project and all, I'm having trouble keeping that promise.

By Wednesday, we've established a sort of hostile vibe.

She arrives disgustingly early, wearing pressed suits that probably cost more than my rent.

I roll in just before nine, usually with a half-eaten muffin and coffee that's definitely going to leave rings on my desk.

"There are these revolutionary inventions," she says one morning, eyeing the crumbs on my keyboard. "They're called coasters. And trash cans."

I deliberately take another bite of my chocolate croissant, letting the flakes fall where they may.

"There's this revolutionary concept called 'living a little.' You should try it sometime." My mouth is full with food but I don't care.

She responds by reorganizing my entire desk while I'm at lunch. Every pen lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. My sticky notes arranged by color. Even my coffee mug has been relocated to a precise spot that probably required geometric calculations.

"Seriously?" I demand when I return.

She doesn't even look up from her computer.

"I was tired of looking at chaos."

"It's organized chaos!"

"That's an oxymoron."

"You're an oxymoron," I mutter, which isn't my finest comeback, but something about her makes my brain short-circuit.

Maybe it's the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. Or how her voice gets all soft and warm when she's on the phone with clients, so different from the ice queen tone she uses with me.

Or the fact that sometimes, when she thinks I'm not looking, her professional mask slips just enough to reveal something gentle underneath.

Not that I'm looking. I'm definitely not memorizing the different shades of brown in her eyes, or how her lips purse when she's trying not to smile at one of my jokes.

That would be ridiculous.

Just like it's ridiculous how much space she takes up in my head. How I find myself doing things specifically to get a reaction from her.

Playing my music a little louder.

Leaving my lunch wrappers just around.

Anything to make her look at me, even if it's with exasperation.

Friday afternoon, I'm reaching for a file just at the same time as she is. Our hands brush, and the contact sends an electric jolt straight up my arm.

I freeze. She freezes too.

Her skin is softer than I imagined---not that I've been imagining it, but it's warm against mine.

A second goes by, then another. Slow, sticky and sweet.

Then she jerks back like I've burned her, and the moment is gone.

There was definitely something there!

"Sorry," she mumbles, a flush across her cheeks. "I was just..."

"Yeah," I say, equally shaken. "Sorry."

We spend the rest of the afternoon careful around each other, hyperaware of every movement and trying by all means to not reach for the same things at once...again.

I catch her watching me once, her expression unreadable. When I look again, she's buried in her work, but her cheeks are pink.

It's not until I'm packing up to leave that she speaks again.

"Your music," she says suddenly.

I brace for another complaint. "What about it?"

"The song you were playing earlier. The one about stars?" She's not looking at me, focused intently on organizing her already clean desk. "Nice."

Something unfurls in my chest. "Yeah?"

She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late." I grin, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Want me to make you a playlist, princess?"

"Eww." But there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Your loss." I head for the door. "Oh, and your obsessive organizing thing? It's not cute. It's creepy in a serial killer way."

She rolls her eyes, but I swear her cheeks get pinker. "Get out of my office, Lori."

"Our office," I correct, and the look she gives me shouldn't make my stomach flip, but it does.

I leave before I can do something stupid, like tell her how pretty she looks when she's pretending to be annoyed with me. Or how sometimes, when the afternoon light hits her just right, she takes my fucking breath away, how her beautiful hips always make me forget what I need to do.

Because that would be complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea.

Then again, I've never been very good at staying away from terrible ideas. Especially when they come wrapped in designer suits with eyes that could turn a beautiful shade darker with lust.

***

I like me some flirty banter!