Chapter 12

The next morning I'm already in the office when Thomas arrives. The moment my eyes land on him, I sorely regret telling him not to wear a suit. Dressed casually, he looks even more attractive than yesterday.

He's sporting a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a light-gray V-neck sweater, and I have to work hard to keep my jaw from dropping. The way the jeans hug his toned legs in all the right places is criminal.

The sweater is no better; it clings tightly to his torso in an obscenely soft way. His broad shoulders are accentuated by the snug fit, while the muscles of his toned arms are defined under the thin fabric.

His light-brown hair is combed back into an effortless style that appears both natural and perfectly styled at once.

And his face. Oh, gosh, it's a take-me-to-bed-and-do-whatever-you-please-with-me face. Subtle stubble frames his jaw with an aura of seduction like he's had morning sex and didn't have time to shave before coming to work. Which is probably the case. I'm still resisting the urge to google his relationship status but I remain convinced he isn't single. Best option, he's a natural flirt and doesn't even realize the effect he has on women. Worst case, he's a player who knows exactly what he's doing. Either way, he's untouchable for so many reasons.

The thought prompts me to clench my thighs under the desk. Thomas Mercer is all perfect angles and exquisite power and the casual clothes don't detract one bit from his halo of dominance.

My heart races as I avert my eyes before he catches me gawking. But I can sense his gaze on me—an electric spark traveling through the room—daring me to look up again and meet his eye.

I resist the impulse, doing my best to control my inappropriate reactions. What would I give to be totally indifferent to this man? But it's no use; suit or no suit, Thomas Mercer is simply too gorgeous for me not to take notice.

He continues on confidently into the office with a quick, casual hello. He's no doubt aware of how attractive he is, but he still manages not to come across as cocky.

As he gets to his desk with his back turned to me, I dare another peek. My chest tightens as my gaze lingers on his perfect derriere until he sits in his chair. I almost groan in disappointment at being deprived of the view.

Trying to compose myself, I quickly look away again and busy myself with shuffling papers on my desk, doing my best to avoid looking at his corner. But I still listen to him exchange morning banter with K-2P. Thomas "Nice Ass" Mercer even charmed the darn sour robot in less than twenty-four hours.

After what feels like forever, Thomas finally comes over and greets me with a smile that makes me forget how to breathe.

"Morning, Campbell," he says, his voice deep and velvety.

He's so attractive that it's almost mesmerizing to look at him—like staring into an open fire on a frosty night.

I fill my lungs with air and release it gradually. "Good morning, Thomas." I inhale again.

My cheeks flame up but at least my voice sounds normal and doesn't come out in a high-pitched squeak.

Thomas turns slightly, presenting me with his new wardrobe. He waits for me to acknowledge his casual clothes. When I don't, he flashes me a coy smirk as if he's fully conscious of the influence he has over me. Probably because he has it on every woman.

"Did you need something?" I ask.

His smirk widens, and the darn dimples appear while his eyes snatch mine. I couldn't look away if I tried.

"I've finished with the brochure and I'm ready for the next part of my training."

I all but melt under his gaze, and have to fight against the urge to reach out and squeeze one of those biceps. Test if they'd feel as hard as they look.

Nu-uh, I can't be near him today.

"Okay, then you should probably familiarize yourself better with each research project. Why don't you start with mobility? You and Maria seem to get along."

"Sure." His eyes flash, as if to say, Pawning me off won't stop you from liking me.

No, it won't. But at least I'll have a few hours of peace. Between yesterday's lunch and the first day's introductions, he's already met almost everyone in the lab, so a second tour of the lab would be superfluous. It's now phase two of his robotics training.

K-2P wheels closer to my desk. "Can I tag along?"

I stand up and gesture to the door. "Be my guest."

The robot looks at me. "Are you okay, boss?"

"Yes, why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Your face is unnaturally red."

I flush an even deeper shade of crimson. "Oh." I touch my cheeks and feel the heat radiating off of them. "It's warm in here. It's nothing." I herd the droid out of the office. "Now, shoo."

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Thomas lifting his eyebrows while that irresistible twinkle sparkles in his eyes.

I don't dare to look directly at him as we step into the main lab and head toward Maria's station. Still, I'm not blind to the satisfied, knowing smirk plastered on his stupid, handsome face.

Maria looks up and her face lights up when she sees Thomas. She stands, slightly leaning forward, like a sunflower turning toward the light.

After giving him a not-so-subtle once-over, she bats her eyelashes at him.

"Nice jeans." Her gaze lingers a moment too long on him—not that I'm one to talk. I was ogling him the same way a moment ago in my office. But seeing Maria mirroring my awestruck eyeballing irritates me, turning me almost territorial.

"The biz-caj look suits you," the head of mobility concludes.

Thomas scratches the back of his head in a self-deprecating, I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it gesture.

"Thanks."

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of the visit?" Her words drip with an over-the-top flirtatious undertone.

I step in. "I thought Thomas could shadow you today, and get a deeper understanding of the research on our mobile platforms with integral controllers and 7-axis robot arms."

Maria flips her hair nonchalantly, letting out a throaty laugh. "Of course. I'd love the company."

The head of mobility goes on and gives him a rundown of her various projects in that rehearsed, I've-given-this-presentation-a-million-times-before tone. Thomas pays close attention to every detail she explains, nodding along or asking questions about certain points of interest.

Eventually, after all the broad info has been discussed, Maria turns to him with a warm smile that once again doesn't sit well with me.

"You'll fit in just fine," she says with a slight giggle at the end of her sentence.

"That's good to hear," he replies, his voice a low, sexy rumble.

I'm clearly superfluous here with nothing to contribute.

With a curt, "I'll leave you two to it." I turn on my heels and leave, quickly heading toward the safety of my office. A Mercer-free space.

Except, the subtle hint of Thomas's expensive aftershave still lingers in the air and makes it impossible for me to concentrate on anything else.

That night as I get home, I bask in the certainty that I'm finally 100per cent free of Thomas Mercer and his infuriatingly charming presence. But as I kick off my shoes and start rummaging through my bag, searching for my phone charger, I notice a blue Post-it note stuck alongside the interior lining. A few lines are written on it in neat handwriting.

Did you approve of my "biz-caj" attire today?

No signature. Not that I need it.

My face grows hot, and I smile.

Then groan. Of course he had to leave me a reminder of him.

What kind of game is he playing? Didn't we agree not to flirt? Is he flirting? Do I want him to flirt? Unfortunately, the answer is yes. No matter what I told him. Why is this man so difficult to overlook? A strange mix of feelings overcomes me.

Part of me is annoyed by his presumptuousness, while the other part feels a little flattered. Then I give up trying to assess my feelings and give in to a curiosity that's been plaguing me since he stepped into my office mid-striptease. I google him.

Page Sixand various other gossip websites don't report a girlfriend. His socials are all public and, as I scroll a few pages of pictures, he always appears alone or with buddies. No recurring women.

So definitely single?

Thomas is many things, but he doesn't strike me as a shady dude. The opposite, perhaps, someone who's too direct. He wouldn't be sending a "friendly colleague" secret notes if he had a girlfriend.

I sigh and flop on the sofa, resigning myself to the fact that, in his vicinity or not, I'll be spending way too much time thinking about Thomas Mercer for the foreseeable future.

The next day, I'm slightly more prepared for Thomas's "business-casual" handsomeness and exert better control over the heat levels of my face.

I don't acknowledge the note. I catch Thomas looking at me funny more than once, fighting not to smile as if he knows that I've read the note and am pointedly refusing to discuss it. We enter a strange contest of pretending where neither of us wants to give the other the satisfaction of mentioning our secret first.

But if our gazes keep locking and smoldering into each other at this rate, I might have to request a fire extinguisher be brought into the office. I'm a match ready to be lighted, and he's a strip of striker.

The silent battle is at least short-lived as, today, I ship him off to shadow Lizzie, allowing me to push through another day with a few salvaged, unfried brain cells.

At home, I won't lie, when I go to fish my charger out of my bag, my pulse is out of control as I search around the bag with trepidation.

Thomas hid the note better this time and tucked it away in one of the side pockets.

No response? How rude, Campbell.

I chuckle.

That darn man.

On Friday, the silent war of furtive stares and suppressed smirks continues, all our stolen glances carrying the same coded message: I won't mention the notes if you don't.

We're both stony-faced. He's determined, and I'm stubborn. There's no way either of us is going to break first.

But his plan has a weakness. That he has to write and plant the notes. He can write them in private, sure. But to place them in my bag, Thomas needs access. I try to catch him in the act multiple times. I leave the office with various excuses, saying I'm going to get a coffee, go to the bathroom, go check on a colleague's work, then burst in a minute later, pretending I've forgotten something. But I never discover him anywhere near my bag.

And the silent battle continues.

But when Thomas gets up to leave for the day, I decide to take the risk and speak up. "Have a nice weekend," I say, my voice low.

He has this half-smile on his face and replies with a nod. "Sure, I'll see you on Monday."

The flirty tension between us is palpable, broken only by K-2P when the droid makes a noise of excitement, ecstatic that he's going home with Thomas.

Thomas turns to me with that insufferable, knowing smirk. "Anything I should know before taking this guy home?"

"Don't mess with his circuits and you should be fine."

"I'm fully charged," K-2P says. "Ready for our boys' weekend."

"I'm sure you'll both have an amazing time." I'm half-grinning and I know Thomas can tell how much I'm itching to call him out on the notes.

He looks at me for a moment, eyes too intense for anyone's good. "You too, Campbell. See you on Monday."

I look away, confused by the emphasis he puts on the words. When I look back up, he and K-2P have already gone out of the room.

I'm wistful for the entire metro ride home, simmering with so much pent-up frustration and confusion I can barely sit still. The first thing I do as I get home is to open my bag and search for a note. I'm not sure why I waited until I got home. Why I didn't search for it in the office, the moment Thomas got out. I guess it's become a sort of ritual. Also, these notes feel private. I don't want to read them at work.

But there's no note lining the side of the bag, or tucked away in any of the inside pockets. With a groan of frustration, I go to the couch and capsize the entire contents of the bag on the cushions. No Post-it flies out with them. I check the now-empty bag and there it is, blue paper attached to the bottom.

Made you work for this one. Am I to believe you're becoming fond of my notes?

Have a great weekend, Campbell.

I hug the small sheet of paper to my chest, smiling like an idiot.

Is this what being courted feels like? Or is Thomas like this with everyone? Is Maria getting notes, too?

Some inexplicable deep instinct tells me that no, she's not getting them.

The notes are innocuous enough; even so, they feel special. Am I special to him?

Do I want to be special?

The honest, terrifying answer is yes!

It hits me with staggering clarity.

I lie back on the couch and let out a delighted, yet despondent sigh. If only the weekend were over already.