I set the plate on top of a pile of papers on his desk. “Here. I saved your pie from Gary’s clutches.”

He finally looks up and meets my eyes. “Thanks.”

I trace a circle on the floor with one of my flats, for some reason unable to move from this office. I remember the way we smacked together like magnets yesterday; like I can’t make myself move, even though I want to.

“Try it,” I say.

“What?”

“The pie.” I point to it. “Try it. I need to know if it’s good enough to bake for the shop.”

He sighs.

“Oh, yes, poor you,” I say. “Here I am, forcing you to eat delicious baked goods.”

He sighs again, louder, but reaches for the pie this time. His fork slices off a perfect triangle at the end and he puts it in his mouth, staring straight at me as he chews. Watching someone’s jaw move shouldn’t feel like this, should it? It shouldn’t.

“Tell me it’s good,” I say, too loudly, trying to stop my train of thought.

“It’s good,” he says.

“I would’ve accepted a little more enthusiasm, but okay.”

Nick takes another bite, and then another. I watch him chew as I bite my bottom lip.

He stops chewing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you in any particular way,” I say lightly, but let’s be real, I know that I am. I’m giving Nick intense I’m going to rip your clothes off vibes right now and even though he’s under the spell of an amazing pie, he’d have to be a fool not to notice.

“So that’s all you have to say, huh? Not, like, ‘Wow, this is the literal best pie I’ve ever had and I’m now ruined for other pies’?”

Nick puts down his fork. “Stop needling me.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” I mutter, waggling my eyebrows in an exaggerated manner.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Nick says with an eye roll. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about. It didn’t happen, right?”

We stare at each other a moment, the air heavy, until I say, “Whatever. I’m out of here.”

“Yes, please. Get out of here and go do the job I pay you for.”

“You mean you don’t pay me to stand around and make inaccurate sexual innuendo?”

Nick leans back in his chair, and I have to stop myself from having a physical reaction to the sight of his chest straining against the fabric of his flannel shirt. “Chloe. I don’t even have enough money to pay you for that.”

“I have been working overtime in that regard,” I say, then flee the room.

* * *

After work, I head over to my dad’s. It’s a perfect spring night, the kind where the trees are starting to bud and the air is cold but promising warmth and you can kind of forget that you just endured several long months of Ohio winter and seasonal depression. But part of being the type of person who sees a silver lining in every spring cloud means that I’m determined to appreciate this brief and mercurial season. I’m wearing an extremely cute denim jacket over my favorite butterfly dress, plus a thick pair of black tights because while I may be an optimist, it’s not exactly sundress weather yet.