Perhaps it’s the naughty glimmer in her eyes.

Or it could be that a part of me was dormant for a decade. Whatever the reason, I don’t stop the flirty, dirty tease with Bryn. I inch closer. Her desk is between us—a barrier that’ll keep me out of trouble. “It would be completely terrible,” I say in a tone that makes it clear that sex with her would be the opposite.

“Absolutely awful,” she says, punctuating those words with sensuality, like she’s murmuring lace or satin.

“The worst thing ever.”

All I want to do is walk around the desk, bend down, and park my hands on the arms of her chair. Kiss her till she melts under me. Till her back bows and she’s grabbing at my shirt, begging me to put her on her desk and take her.

I lick my lips, marching full speed into danger. “The only worse idea would be lifting you up on that desk right now.”

Her eyes flicker with flames. Her voice is laced with invitation. “What would you do with me there?”

Fuck appropriate for a few more seconds. Just fuck it hard. “Hike up your skirt. Pin your hands behind you. Pull your hair nice and tight.”

“And then?” Her breath comes faster.

I lean closer to her desk, parking my elbow on it. I run my finger along the empty rim of her mug, the Obi-Wan wine one, my gaze never straying from hers. “Give it to you the way you want.”

“And what way is that?” Her eyes stay locked with mine, and I swear sex and desire are written in her irises. They’re teased on her lips. They’re in the flush of the skin on her chest, that patch of softness above the buttons on her blouse. So soft and tempting, and I want to dip my face and kiss and touch and lick.

I stare at her lush lips then her gorgeous eyes. “I bet you’d want me to take you hard, wrap your legs so damn tight around me. Put my hand on your mouth to cover your moans. Pull your hair and jerk your head back. Fuck you till you bite my hand because it feels so damn good when I’m inside you, owning you.”

A dangerous sound slips from her lips, a needy gasp. She lets her eyes flutter closed, presses her teeth against her lips, then breathes out, words catching on her breath. “Own me. Yes, own me.”

“God, I want to, Bryn. I want to so much.”

“Me too.”

She lifts her hand languidly, brings it to the exposed skin of her chest, then lets it trail down her flesh, almost as if she can’t help herself, like she can’t resist touching her own body right here in front of me. “Do you like that, Logan?”

I stare shamelessly, my skin on fire. “I do. So fucking much,” I say, and my body heats up to center-of-the-earth levels.

I’m not a stupid man, and I know this is beyond dangerous.

But technically, we’re not doing anything.

We’re simply talking.

Fine, we’re talking insanely dirty.

Okay, I’ll admit it. We’re having sex with words.

We might as well be screwing.

And I need to shut this down, once and for all.

I drag a hand over my face. I must steer this ship back into the appropriate harbor. I built my business on trust, strategy, and doing the right thing. Not on sleeping with my employees. “I need to get it together. I can’t come into your office and have these conversations with you, as much as I want to. This is my fault, and I need to do better.”

I stand, shaking out my hands like I can erase this insane desire for her. Just get it out of my system. Rid myself of it, then bury it underground, hide it forever, and forget it ever existed.

She blinks, straightens her spine, and runs a hand over her hair. “You’re right. That was too risqué. That was inappropriate,” she agrees crisply.

I pace in the small square footage of her office, trying to center myself and my shrinking willpower. “I need to think about something else. Anything.” I gesture to the kitschy glasses on the wall. “Like that. I like those glasses. They make me feel like I just traveled across the middle of the country, blasting some rock music, listening to Journey or Bruce Springsteen, and stopping at some old-fashioned truck stop.”

There. That’s safer. Easier.

Bryn picks up the thread easily. “Where the waitresses wear pastel-pink or mint-green diner uniforms and have names like Flo and Mabel.”

“And they call everyone ‘hon,’” I say. “Or ‘doll.’”

She grins like I’m speaking her special language. “Yes. And the menus are bigger than a blackboard. You feel like you’ve slipped back in time. It’s summer, and you barely have a care in the world.”

I can picture it clearly. That wasn’t my life growing up, but it’s a world I can conjure from images I devoured of road trips and classic American journeys. “I love the way that old-time nostalgic feel of a road trip was portrayed in movies.”

“I loved the way it was for real.” The wistful tone in her voice surprises me. But the words surprise me more. For real.

I tilt my head, curious. “Yeah? Did you collect all of these yourself?”

“Yes, but those are ones I snagged recently. When I was younger, my mom and I used to go on long road trips. Every single summer as a teenager. We’d visit one-horse towns and pull over at rest stops, the kind with vintage signs—vintage because they hadn’t been updated in years. The diners would have shops with these souvenir glasses. We picked up a bunch but lost most of them over the years. So I replenished them recently.”

This intrigues me. All of this. Every detail. I gesture to the Georgia one, the outline of the state in orange, a winking peach on the glass. “Can I touch?”

“Of course.”

I pick it up and study it. “So, what took you on so many road trips with your mom?”

“It’s pretty exciting. Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Sure. Try me,” I say, smiling, charmed by this insight into Bryn.

She clears her throat and adopts a serious expression. “She was an insurance adjuster. We traveled a lot during the summer on her jobs. She turned them all into road trips—so she’d go visit homes that had damage claims from tornados or what have you, and then we’d continue on and make a trip of it. Sometimes we went to ballparks, since she loved baseball and I do too. We saw minor league games and major league games. And we visited all the off-the-beaten-path sites. We collected stuff from everywhere.”

“Did you enjoy the trips?”

“Best times I ever had. We’d find all the quirky, absurd little things in a small town. All the things you have to see. Or maybe we’d research a ghost town and go out of our way to visit it. Or the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Or a neon mini-golf course. We’d travel to all these places, take pictures, grab a bite. My job was to write stories about them.”

“Like travel pieces?” I ask. Their travels sound delightful, and it delights me even more to imagine a young Bryn on these quirky adventures.

“Yes, I was a travel blogger before it was cool,” she says. “I did it on my own. Just for fun.”

“Is that what brought you into this world?” I gesture broadly to her office, including the door to indicate the offices beyond. “Writing, content creation, editorial?”

She swipes some strands of her brown hair off her shoulder. “I think so. I’ve just always done it. I created all sorts of stories about where we went, packaged them up with photos, made websites and blogs for them. That’s where it started—road tripping. We had a blast, chronicling our summer adventures and picking up all these vintage keepsakes from the side of the road. And then later, when I was older and Mom retired, we went scavenging for kitsch together at sales and stuff. We still went on road trips, but we were always on the hunt for little tchotchkes. She loved Snoopy, hence my overpowering drive to snag the Snoopy lunch box.”

Bryn only talks of her mother in the past tense. Gently, I ask, “Did she pass away, Bryn?”

“Yes.”