Armed with my crunchy snacks, I take a winding path around all the desks and tables before finally stopping in front of Conference Room B. There Dustin sits, his cheeks flushed red with annoyance as he looks up from his computer.
"Took you long enough." He shakes his head.
"It's a big office. I got lost," I giggle with a shrug.
He heaves a sigh. "So, you're really going to do this?"
"Do what?" I ask innocently.
Dustin scratches at his beard absentmindedly and mutters something that sounds likethat answers that. "Thank you for joining me, Ms. Dunne. I do apologize for the late notice. Unfortunately, duty calls and Atmosphere requires my FE R&D report before beginning of business Monday."
"Coolio," I reply and plop into an open chair. The bag of white cheddar popcorn crinkles obnoxiously as I tear it open and rustle around for a good, crunchy handful. "What do you need from me?"
His eyes narrow as he watches me shove the handful into my mouth. "A full detail of the languages your team codes in, as well as the names of the repositories you use. Are any of them open-source? Proprietary? A mix of both?"
"Sure, mix of both. MIT licensing on the open-source." I take another massive bite and loudly suck my teeth. "Mm. Good popcorn. Want some?"
"God, no." He shudders. "Do you have a list of your repositories? Libraries?"
"Not on me, no. I can tell you we're pretty focused on Python, though. Andrea does masterful work with some JavaScript." I lift the bag to my lips and pour the last handful into my mouth. A few crumbs escape and land on my chest. "Woops, popcorn on deck."
"Fucking unbelievable," he mumbles under his breath. His fingers fly over the keyboard of his computer, and I swear, each tap of the key is louder and more aggressive.
I have to admit, he's still pretty cute. Especially when he's pissed off. He was always so even-keeled in high school. Safe. Quiet. Kind of boring. Although, I'd never say that to him back then… until I did. Yeah, I was a dumb kid. And I definitely shouldn't have called him boring in myDear John letter. Seeing this side of him? All uptight and professional, but absolutely fuming?
Maybe things would have ended differently. Maybe not. Who's to say?
"What's unbelievable, Dusty?" I grin like a shark.
"You!" He leaps out of his chair and stalks towards me. "You're unbelievable, Brooke! Itoldyou, Itoldyou I'm only here to coordinate tech stack integrations.Youare the one making this difficult."
Oh my god, he's so close to me. We haven't been this close in years—well, except for when he barreled into me yesterdayandpulled me down to the floor with him. My heart flutters, and I internally command that bitch to calm the fuck down. His chestnut brown hair is slightly mussed, like he's been running his fingers through it all day. And his stupid thick beard has just a hint of lightened brown.Andhe still has that strong nose I always loved to run a finger over.
Of course he does—people don't usually lose their noses. That's dumb of me. I beg my stupid heart and brain to focus on beingmadinstead of appreciating the rugged beauty of my high school sweetheart, and Ialmostwin.
His warm hand lands on my hip, and I feel his fingers grip into my flesh.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I whisper.
Dustin opens his mouth, then closes it, and my breath catches in my throat. Before I can shove him away, hismouth lands on mine with desperation. Hunger.Power. His beard is softer than it looks and I melt into his kiss. All rationality exits my brain. Sorry, Brooke isn't home right now.
His hands feel like vices around my hips as he pulls me even closer. Fuck, it feels so good. I wanna crawl under his skin and root around. My tongue flicks his, and he groans into our kiss. The sound makes little tingles explode in my mind and race down my nerves, culminating between my legs.
Fuck. I'm in trouble.
Dustin
I'manidiot.I'ma bonafide idiot. Here I am, passionately making out with my ex-girlfriend, in theoffice. All of the college-educated intelligence in my brain is screaming at me to pull away, to apologize, to run down the four flights of stairs, and never show my face at DropTop again.
But my brain isn't in charge right now. No, teenage me is screaming bloody murder in my mind, telling me to grab onto her and never let go. I have to say, he's making excellent points. And every synapse in my body short-circuits when Brooke slides her hands around my waist and wiggles herself onto the trendy, post-modern conference table.
I hate her. I hate everything she does to me. I hate the way she crunched on thatfuckingpopcorn. I hate the way she pokes and prods at every button I have. I hate the way she cornered me in the elevator. I hate the way she yelled at me over a goddamn cupcake.
And god, I want to show her just how badly I hate her.
Brooke's hand slides over my hip and grabs at my belt, trying to unfasten the buckle. My cock leaps to attention at the speed of a much younger man—I really think my teenage self is at the helm here, and I'm only along for the ride. But it's me that grunts in annoyance at her sensible corporate attire. There are too many layers.
Every ounce of feminism leaves my body as I wrench the beige pants from her hips and drop them to the floor. "No pants. Not allowed."
