Free Closest Encounter by E.G. Wiser Page A

ball form. You know. Because it’s easy. To eat. Except when it rolls. Then it can be hard to catch.”
    Stop.
    Talking.
    “Okay.” Sam’s lips turned upward in mockery on his almost handsome, totally charming face, topped in curling, floppy, please-run-your-hands-through-me brown hair.
    Yes, I absolutely had told him I loved to eat balls. I decided I should smile through this faux pas. Everyone knew a bright grin made unpleasant things go away. Ask Judy Garland.
    “I like food in stick or chip form myself,” he said, munching a piece of celery in stick form.
    I couldn’t come up with anything to say about sticks that wasn’t dirty. “Chips are good.” Really, I impressed even myself with the brilliance of my witty banter. At any moment my clothes would be ripped off my quivering body by Sam, my same-named accounting crush.
    I hated the office Christmas party.
    Sam blinked and appraised me in what I chose to interpret as a captivated manner. A girl could dream. Instead he said, “So, Scott told me you entertained the employees at last year’s party.”
    “Yes. I fell down the steps.” My cheeks burned like the carpet at the end of two flights of stairs. I wasn’t clumsy too often, but when I made the effort, I really won at it. “You can still see the splotch on the floor from the blood. I lost a tooth, but gained a reputation.”
    “That’s gross.” He grinned. One wouldn’t call him drop-dead gorgeous or anything. At first, you might consider him kinda ordinary-looking. Then the naughty glimmer in his eye caught your breath. The smile appeared, emphasising the lickable curve of his bottom lip. Charm emanated from his very pores.
    And, of course, he possessed the nuclear weapon of facial features. The dimple. Only one—on the left side of his face—deep enough to bury yourself in. One flicker and panties fell at thirty paces.
    My body temperature had suddenly shot upward to somewhere near surface of the sun levels. I’d disconnected completely from the conversation and reverted to teenage-girl-like gawking.
    I took a steadying breath and jumped back into the fray. “So, accounting? Is that as glamorous as it sounds?” I had, apparently, decided that deriding his profession was the way to go, flirt-wise. Plays like this were risky, but desperation had sunk in. His temp job in the finance department ended today—I would have no more chances to bend and snap at the water cooler for his benefit.
    The corners of his sometimes green, sometimes brown, always dreamy eyes crinkled. “Of course. Usually I have eight models in my accounting entourage, but I gave them the night off.”
    Uh-oh. He was funny, too. It just wasn’t fair. “How kind of you. You could say you’re a model boss! Ha ha!” Yes, I laughed at my own joke, which was a behaviour shared by the most sophisticated of ladies. Then I remembered I turned a horrid shade of blotchy red when I got too excited. I choked off my laughter and forced down some potato.
    “I could say that, but I won’t.”
    “No, you really shouldn’t.”
    The dimple chose that moment to come out and play. Oh, Sam—let’s retire to the supply room and hump. It had been so long since I had humped anyone. Or anywhere. I shoved more mmmmm-yummy potato ball into my mouth and almost didn’t get it on my festive sweater, the beautiful red one I’d spent way too much money on in the hopes of getting Sam to notice me.
    He noticed now. “You have a blob of—”
    Then he grabbed my boob.
    “Jesus, I’m sorry!” His eyes became saucers, and he jerked his hand back, leaving my skin scorched and feverish. “There’s a bunch of potato on your…sweater. Let’s, um, let’s go to the kitchen. There’s a sink.”
    My stomach dropped three storeys—I’d just accidentally got to second base in public. He grabbed my arm, and we hurried past a maze of monochrome cubes draped in twinkle lights to the break room. This was the most exciting event in the office since they