If anything, it looked ... slightly repositioned. Straighter. Like some part of Wes couldn’t help himself.
My eyes tracked down the list, already knowing what I’d written, until they snagged on two new lines at the bottom in harsh, masculine handwriting.
Rule #6: Knock like you mean it.
Rule #7: No hostile workplace signage.
Heat rushed up my neck so fast I felt it behind my ears.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, even though nobody was there to hear me.
He didn’t tear it down.
He’d answered.
A laugh bubbled in my throat before I could stop it. I clamped my lips together, but it still escaped as a quiet huff as I leaned closer to read it again.
No hostile workplace signagewas so petty it bordered on charming, which was unacceptable for early-morning hours.
I smiled, then wiped it off my face like it was evidence.
Get coffee. Leave. Pretend you never saw it. Pretend you didn’t just feel a weird, stupid spark of triumph because Wes Vaughn had engaged in stationery warfare with you.
I turned toward the counter, moving too quickly, too eager, as if the coffee maker was a getaway car. I reached for a mug, fumbled it, caught it at the last second, and let out a silent curse that would have earned me a lecture from my mother and a high five from Kit.
The coffee was already made, which prompted something in my chest to tilt—annoying and soft all at once. Even in his misery, Wes Vaughn wasn’t the kind of man who skipped caffeine.
I poured myself a mug and took a cautious sip.
A soft sound came from behind me.
Heavy, measured footsteps.
My spine went straight.
Wes walked into the kitchen in gray sweatpants and a dark T-shirt, hair damp like he’d washed his face and run a hand through it without looking in a mirror. His eyes were tired. His jaw was shadowed in a way that made him look rough around the edges, like sleep had fought him and won.
His gaze dropped.
Not to my face, but tome.
My pajama shorts. My bare legs. Beneath the sweatshirt my oversize tee that—oh, god—probably clung in all the wrong places. I suddenly remembered with a hot, sick swoop that I wasn’t wearing a bra.
I crossed my arms over my chest so fast I nearly sloshed coffee down my front.
Wes’s eyes flicked up for half a second—caught mine—then moved away like he’d burned his hand.
The air between us felt too warm. I couldn’t tell if it was the heater or my shame.
“Good morning,” I said, and it came out wrong. Too bright. Too careful.
“Morning.” One word. Flat. Gravelly.
I lifted my mug like it explained why I was standing in his kitchen in basically nothing. “Coffee’s good.”
“Okay.”
I nodded like that was a complete exchange and not two robots trying to pass as humans. “Okay.”