Swagger: Chapter 2

“Holy shit.”

The only words that come to mind as Whitney is standing in front of this beautiful beautiful man is “holy shit” because, holy shit, he is gorgeous. The bronze Adonis standing before her is so far beyond perfect it makes her body ache and her eyes fill with moisture. The pit of her stomach turns upwards and sideways and then rockets up into her throat and she’s pretty sure that she might throw up on him which would be, quite frankly, the absolute opposite of what a person should do when in this type of situation.

While she stands there, four non-fat iced mocha lattes in one hand and the keys to the copy machine in the other, she can feel the beating of her heart pressing uncomfortably against her chest because, fuck, he is most definitely staring at her too…and smiling. He’s smiling at her and his curly red hair is falling into those common green eyes and there’s a dimple pinching at each of his cheeks…and there’s freckles. Light brown freckles spattered at the tops of his beautifully pale cheeks, just below those eyes, and it hits her that maybe ‘bronze’ god wasn’t at all the correct way to describe him. Because he isn’t bronzed at all. He isn’t tan or even that normal color of California. He’s actually pretty damn pale. Distractingly so.

Whitney’s brain goes all hay-wire when he blinks, slow and seductive-like, because she can see those pale copper eyelashes resting against his equally pale skin and shit if she’s not wondering if his nether hairs mirror that beautiful color; shit if her brain’s not going into over-drive planning a million different ways she can find that out for herself.

When his eyes open up again, that foresty green color revealing itself, she immediately thinks: fuck me. And that simple little two word phrase repeats itself over and over and over in her head like a chant until the words meld together and it’s a just this quiet low buzzing in the back of her mind. That forest green color must be a sign of fertility, she thinks. Fertile and responsive…and wet. Lush. Beautiful.

She breaks herself out of this train of thought; it’s going no where productive, at least it isn’t going anywhere that would be productive in this instance, and she’s sure that staring at this man so unabashedly for any more time is going to freak him out…if it hasn’t already.

“Um…excuse me,” she mumbles looking pointedly at the desk he’s leaning against, her desk.

His eyebrows raise and he nods quickly before straightening up. Whitney notices that he’s a good six inches taller now that he isn’t half-sitting. She also notices that he was sitting on her desk. His ass was on her desk and she can’t help but think of what his ass looks like. More plans formulate in her head and she’s sure she can manage to get a peak within the next ten minutes.

Placing the coffee and her keys onto the desk, she’s freed up her hands and manages to pull her bag over her head. The strap of her oversize satchel rips at her hat and it hits the floor with a muted thud. Another plan quickly forms. She pretends she hasn’t notice that it’s fallen, despite the chill on her head and her almost unstoppable compulsion to fret with her hair and primp it back into an acceptable style. As planned, the man, this beautiful red head, politely bends over granting her the perfect opportunity to visually explore his backside. Her head shakes slightly. She’s appalled. She can’t remember the last time she’s spent five seconds in such a satisfying way. His ass is perfect.

“Greek. Greek god,” she mumbles as he’s straightening up.

“Hmm?”

He’s looking at her again. His eyes are opened a bit wider than what would be normal and his bottom lip is neatly tucked between his teeth.

Before she can get lured in by that simple gesture, Whitney averts her eyes to the extended hat. “I said, thank you,” she lies, “for picking up my hat. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, miss.”

And Whitney fucking loses it. And she’s trying to think of something to say in response to that, anything at all, but her mind is blank except for two little words: fuck me. They’re flashing in neon against the white blank that has become her mind. ‘Fuck me’ because not only is he crushingly attractive in all physical forums, but he’s also southern. And the accent pushes her over the edge.

She stumbles back a step and knots her fingers behind her back. The last thing she needs is some sort of lawsuit for sexually assaulting a complete stranger.

“Thank you.” The words barely make it out of her mouth. Her tongue feels weighted and her teeth are in the way. The tightening in her throat doesn’t help and it just seems to be the perfect topper to this triad of things that could go wrong. She’s not even sure if he understood her. She kind of wishes he hadn’t because if he did, she just thanked him for saying ‘you’re welcome’ and, seriously, who the does that?

Kismet happens then. Before Whitney has any more time to make a fool of herself, she hears the voice of her boss. “Is the intern in yet?”

Quickly she shrugs out of her jacket and flings it over the back of her chair. She grabs the small tray of coffee and rushes past him. The urge to “accidentally” brush her arm against his is almost overwhelming, but she resists.

“I’m right here,” she says as she enters her boss’s office. A smile is plastered on her face, genuine enough, though for all the wrong reasons. “I come bearing coffee. No need to thank me.”

“Whit!” Poole yells.

And she groans. She knows that tone. She could detect it twenty-thousand miles away, over a cheap cellphone in an elevator in a mall garage.

Michael Poole is not pleased.

“You’re late.”

Whitney’s eyes shift to the clock hanging against the far side of the wall and, as expected, she’s actually ten minutes early, like she always is.

“Am I, sir?” she asks compliantly. The word ‘sir’ tastes stale in her mouth. She hated days like these; days when Michael Poole was in a shitty mood; days when he would pop a lung if she were to call him anything but ‘sir’; days like today. Or, at least, she would have hated this day, if it hadn’t been for that really attractive guy just outside of this office. In the back of her mind, the video of him bent over and reaching for her hat reeled in a loop - this fantastic HD color enhanced loop.

“Yes,” he answers gruffly. He spins around in his chair and stares at her for a moment.

Whitney rolls her eyes and pushes a cup of coffee towards him. “Here. It’s good and cold.”

Hesitantly he takes it from her and begins flipping through the newspaper in front of him, no longer acknowledging her presence.

Whitney stands at his desk a bit longer, waiting. Once he takes the first sip of his coffee, she’s satisfied. With a renewed smile on her face, she turns and walks quietly out of his office.

Before heading back to her own desk, she makes the rounds. As she goes from office to office, she can still see the red-head hovering near her desk. At times, his back is to her and he’s picking through the little knick-knacks on the desktop. Other times, he’s turned to face her, once again leaning against her desk, and he’s watching as she walks around. He’s got this smile on his face, not really smug but not completely innocent either, and it’s making her nervous. {i]Who is this guy?

When Whitney leaves the final office, the office of the magazine’s graphics editor, she’s greeted by a beautiful site. It’s Ginger and his sleeves are rolled up. They’re pushed up to the elbow and she can see the thick veins straining against his skin. His forearms are slight, not at all muscular or powerful, but they’re perfect anyway. And the way he’s bent over…well, Whitney’s getting quite the view.

It’s not until she hears this toe-curling screeching sound, that she realizes what he’s doing. Firetop is pushing something. He’s moving her desk and, what the fuck, why is he doing that?

“Hey! Hey! What are you doing?” Whitney races over to him and pushes gently at his shoulder.

The screeching noise stops and he turns his head, just enough so that he can see her, and looks up at her. Upon noticing the distressed and somewhat annoyed expression on her face, he smiles again before standing up and extending his right hand.

“Hi,” he says in that wonderfully spine-tingling accent. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself. I’m Andrew.”

Cautiously, Whitney shakes hands with him, one eyebrow raised and her lips slighting puckered. “I’m Whitney. Why are you moving my desk?”

“To make room for mine.” He answers in a way that makes Whitney a bit embarrassed; as if the answer was right in front of her face and she was just too stupid to notice it.

An awkward moment passes before he speaks again. “I’m interning for Mark. Mark Weisburn.”

Whitney takes a short moment to think about that. Mark Weisburn, the magazine’s head of photography. She tries to remember any mention of another intern starting, but she comes up empty.

“So you’re a photographer?” Whitney asks skeptically.

And, again, Andrew smiles. “Yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“Right. Okay,” Whitney fumbles over something to say. “But why exactly do you need to move my desk. This is my spot. Mine. There is no space here for another desk. You’re going to have to find some other place.”

Andrew starts laughing then, not a huge guffaw or anything, just a little chuckle. He abruptly stops and then leans forward so that his face is just a few inches from Whitney’s. When he’s this close, Whitney notices, she can smell the sent of his cologne. It’s a bit sweet, sweeter than she would have imagined, and she has to push back the urge to lean into him.

“You’re just going to have to make room, sweetheart.”

When Whitney focuses on his face, she sees that he’s looking at her through half-lidded eyes. One side of his mouth is turned up into a smile and the easy dimple on his cheek reappears. It’s almost breathtaking.

“Yeah, well…we’ll see,” Whitney finishes lamely. Her brain is trying to answer a million different questions all at once and failing miserably. Really, who is this guy? Why can’t I think of anything half-way intelligent to say to him? How does he smell so damn good? Why didn’t anyone tell me there would be a new intern? Is he trying to steal my job? I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Is he a better intern that me? Will they like him better? Would it be weird if I leaned in just a bit and kissed him? Who does he think he is? He can’t move my shit and push his way into my spot. Do those gorgeous freckles extend past his face to places like chest, maybe? Or his back? I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty.

The screeching noise, the sound of metal legs scrapping against the floors enamel, pulls Whitney out of her thinking.

“Stop it!” she screams at Andrew. “What is wrong with you?”

He doesn’t even bother to look up at her this time; he just keeps pushing until her desk hits the wall.