He wears jeans, brown shoes, and a dark-blue button-down, untucked. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his forearms. Racquetball arms, I think. When I researched him, I read that he plays racquetball for a hobby, as well as softball, and I wonder if those sports have made him lean and ropey.

I raise my gaze quickly to his face, cataloging his features.

Flynn Parker has a boyish charm about him, with his clean-shaven jaw, twinkling eyes behind simple black frames, and flawless skin. But I doubt he shaved this morning. Stubble lines his square jaw and makes me wonder deliciously dirty things about how his face would feel against my thighs.

Things I should not entertain.

Especially since the prospect of his scruff near my lady parts is dangerously arousing.

I conduct a clean sweep and focus on the article, donning my imaginary super-reporter cape. “Thank you for making time for me. I’m curious about your favorite place.”

He gestures toward the stairwell that leads underground. “Let us go then, you and I.”

I grab his arm. “Did you just quote T.S. Eliot to me?”

“Hmm. Seems I did.”

I shake my head, amused and turned on. “I was an English major. That’s not fair.”

An impish grin appears. “What’s not fair about it?”

“You can’t quote the first line of a great love poem to an English major. Shame on you,” I admonish playfully, but I’m being honest too. He sounds too seductive reciting poetry.

“Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,” he whispers, and my skin tingles.

“Bad boy.”

“Do you like bad boys?”

“Now I do.”

I’m flirting. I’m flirting times ten. I should stop. I really should.

“I’ll keep it up, then. She walks in beauty like the night.”

My pulse beats faster, and it’s too hard to stop when he quotes poetry. “You’re very bad, Lord Byron.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he begins, and the little hairs on my arms rise in excitement, anticipation.

“You. Must. Stop.”

He tilts his head, and screws up the corner of his lips, fixing on a comical expression. “Arr, I’ll talk like a pirate then, ahoy, matey.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible.”

Laughing, he tips his forehead to my skirt as we head down the stairwell. “I’ll shift gears for you. Is today’s outfit homemade?”

I’m wearing a simple black skirt with a pale pink satin ribbon down one side. “Yes. I suppose I’m predictable.” I glance at my skirt, which hits mid-thigh. I like them short, always have. Flynn seems to, as well, since his gaze follows mine and lingers on my legs.

“You’re hardly predictable. It’s more like a fun discovery each time I see you.”

“You’re kind of weirdly fascinated with my clothes,” I say as our shoes smack against the concrete, but truth be told, I like his interest in my wardrobe. I care about what I wear. I love making my clothes, and the fact that he notices—well, it delights me.