I hand it over, trying hard not to notice how his slacks accentuate his lean hips, how his broad shoulders taper down inverted-pyramid style to a narrow waist, and how those freaking abs make me want to trace each square with my fingertips. And those incredible arms, the bulging biceps as he lifts the shirt over his head.

“I like it.” I point nervously at the T-shirt.

“I wanted someone to test it out. Guess I found him.”

He pulls it over his head, and I swallow. Oh god.

I can’t stop flushing.

He tosses the stained shirt aside and runs his fingers through his hair. Jack has stealthily gotten up from his ass and is licking the coffee at my feet.

“Oh no, Jack.” I kneel and try to stop him. Matt comes to grab him by the collar and leads him away.

“Well, I don’t think he’ll be getting any sleep,” I say, by way of apology.

“That makes two of us.”

I watch him smile down at his dog and run his hand over his head even as he frowns at him for being mischievous. “You never sleep, do you?” I blurt out.

He lifts his gaze. “Got a lot on my mind. I’m lucky if I grab a few straight hours.” I watch him grab his sodden shirt and drape it over the back of his chair.

“I could wash that for you, Matt,” I say. It just sort of slipped out, but I’m mortified a second after I hear myself say it.

Matt glances at the shirt.

“I mean . . . unless you have . . . you probably have someone to do your laundry.”

“Yeah. My dry cleaners.” He laughs. I feel stupid as he leans over with the napkin I had brought to sop up the coffee, then balls it up and tosses it into the trash can. “But that’s the most titillating proposition I’ve ever received from a woman.”

“Really. It turns you on to get your clothes washed.”

“I’m as surprised as you are.”

I laugh, then I bite my lip and reach out for the shirt hanging on the back of his chair. His eyes are super hot. I steal out of the room with his shirt folded in my arm.

I don’t sleep more than four hours either that night.

I can’t stop thinking about him, and the fact that we were flirting and his eyes were hot and he is so very hot, and I’m not sure I like it.

I toss and turn, then leap out of bed early in the morning. I’m in the office before almost anyone. I set his clean shirt, perfectly folded, on his desk when he arrives—I know it’s perfect because I tried folding it a bazillion times.

“Good morning, Matt.”

I walk by, and he catches my fingers for a second as I pass. “Good morning, Charlotte.”

17

THE TIDAL BASIN

Charlotte

That day after lunch, Matt stops by my cubicle, where Alison is showing me some pictures of him at an event that are making my toes curl.

“How’s my month looking?” He looks at me, and somehow it feels as if “month” means a whole other thing, his gaze is that searing.

I swallow at the sight of him in a crisp business shirt and plain black pants. “Busy,” I hasten to say.

I don’t know how that tiny tilt of his lips can cause such a big tilt in my chest cavity. “Just the way I like it.” He smiles at me, nods at Alison, and Alison quickly tucks the pictures against her chest and leaves.

Matt stays by the entrance for a moment. The area feels a tad smaller as he comes over, walks around my desk, and leans over my shoulder to look at my draft. “When am I free tonight?” he asks.

A shiver runs down my spine, hearing his voice so close.

I try to stop the skip of my heart as I skim down the page and tap my finger to show him.

“Perfect.” He leans over a fraction more, to my ear. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

I don’t ask him where we’re going or why, I simply nod as he walks out.

I’m quaking with nervousness as I head home to change. I don’t even know what to wear but opt for a skirt and a silky top. For some reason I keep changing shoes from ballerina flats to pumps, and the instinctive female urge to look feminine and a little sexy wins out. I suppose I’m not proud of this, but there you go. High-heeled peep-toe pumps it is.

At 6 p.m., Matt is downstairs waiting inside a black Lincoln Town Car, his detail, Wilson, opening the door for me. I’m a nervous wreck. The memory of his whisper keeps tingling down my spine, warm and exciting.

I climb into the back of the car, surprised to notice Matt is wearing black sweatpants and a black T-shirt. And running shoes.

His hair is perfect. He looks like some athletic centerfold for Nike.

As Wilson pulls us into traffic, I study my own attire—skirt and a blouse and heels—and finally ask, “We’re running?”

Matt is staring at my shoes with a tilt to his lips, his eyes rising to mine. “More like some light hiking.”

“I . . .” Helplessly, I look at my three-inch heels. “These are going to be a problem,” I say.

He just smiles at me, but he doesn’t look especially heartbroken. “They are.”

We ride in the back of the town car in silence, and I frown at him, wondering why he doesn’t even seem concerned. Matt has never struck me as selfish.

“Wilson, stop to get Miss Wells a pair of running shoes.”

“Wait. Matt!” I protest.

He grabs a white Nike cap from the back of the car and slips on a pair of Ray-Bans. “Two minutes, we’re in and out,” he tells Wilson as he climbs out and peers back inside. One eyebrow goes up in question. “You coming?”

Two minutes inside the shopping center end up being twenty.

I try on a pair of white-and-pink Nikes that I’d always salivated over, and when they fit just right, Matt glances at Wilson, and Wilson takes the box and goes to pay while Matt and I wait outside the store. People are glancing in his direction as if speculating but unsure, and Matt keeps his eye on his phone to avoid getting their attention.

When we’re back in the car and he jerks off the cap and the sunglasses and sets them aside, I say, “I guess Hamiltons never get any privacy.”

He smiles at me, but with a haunted look in his eyes. “Never.”

We ride on.

He admits, “I’ve almost forgotten what it was like when it was simpler.”