Hotline Fling

6: Pay it Forward

Juneau's POV

Mondays meant Meatless Mondays in the cafeteria. No one ate Meatless Monday cafeteria food, including me. Ever the creature of habit, I brought in lasagna leftovers on Mondays. Another creature of habit, Sticky Hands from Accounting swiped said leftovers. Again.

"I have a confession," I admitted to Adam.

A twinkle appeared in his eyes. "How much trouble did you get into over the weekend?"

As much as I wanted to admit none, I wasn't entirely innocent. Technically, my misbehavior wasn't over the weekend, but I delayed my confessional until we were alone.

Adam and I smushed together at a tiny, square pub-style table at Green Juice Cafe, where our feet dangled off pub-height stools. Adam and I sat shoulder to shoulder, ate our lunch sandwiches, and watched the foot traffic that hustled in front of us. The brick-walled, narrow, grab-n-go place had limited seating, but Adam and I went to lunch earlier. Half the fun of lunch in New York City involved people-watching, and we wanted front-row seats.

"Look." My eyes widened when a lady walked by with two tiny dogs and a young child, all in raincoats. I almost cooed at the cuteness when I realized all three were also on leashes. "And you'll never guess what I have to tell you."

"You wanted Mexican food," he teased, also focusing his gaze on the leash lady.

My chicken and Swiss with spinach and avocado spread on pumpernickel was more orgasmic than any of my morning calls. I shook my head so fast that the leash lady blurred. "God, no. And for your sake, along with the whole office for the next two hours, no Mexican food."

"You're secretly dying that I'm not bisexual." He winked and took a big bite of his sandwich.

"No!" I laughed until my shoulders bounced and dragged a napkin across my mouth.

Despite how sharp he looked in his fitted, light blue dress shirt, gray pants, and reddish-brown shoes that I was positive cost more than a week's worth of my wages, no part of me could handle Adam both on sex drive and personality. Teenager-level libido aside, Adam proved we weren't on the same wavelength when he'd educated me on those very shoes in between our morning calls. He called their color 'oxblood,' said they were custom Johnston-Murphy's, then laughed when I admitted that I had no idea who Johnston or Murphy was.

How could I tell him? I was pretty sure he would be happy for me, or one specific part of me, but my unprofessionalism was so embarrassing. "I, umm...had phone sex last week." Warmth kissed my cheeks, and my voice broke.

Those enviable slate-blue eyes didn't even blink, but he coughed on a bite of food, then swallowed hard. "That's kind of the job, Junebug."

"No." I reached out and squeezed his forearm. "I had phone sex."

"With your ex?" Confusion creased his forehead. "Mister Quick Draw McGraw?

"What? No." I shook my head again and directed my gaze outside the window since my cheeks broiled. "With a client."

"Oh, that." He sat back, sipped his soda, then grinned with his gaze fixed out the window. "Working at home perk, Junebug. I rub one out three, four times a day there. One guy, we wake up and come together before breakfast. It's like part of our morning routine, omelets with a side of hand jobs."

Four!? How was his skin not raw and–never mind. "Adam." I groaned and cupped my forehead. "I meant, that's the first time I got off with a caller."

His neatly trimmed eyebrows almost flew off his forehead with how fast they shot up and interest sparkled in his eyes. "When you say got off? Are we talking happy hand time or battery-operated, toe-curling assistance?"