“Look, sorry I called you an asshole, though I really didn’t call you that. Just show me the computers and I’ll get things set up, fix your site, and leave.”

Ben still has that stupid grin on his face, and I hate how attractive he is with it. “You’re making me want to prove to you I’m not an asshole.”

“Really, you don’t have to. You did seem like you were legit sorry you ruined my shirt back there—”

“You said you weren’t upset,” he interjects.

“I’m not that upset. That shirt really doesn’t fit that well and I only wore it because I’m slacking on laundry. I don’t think I’ve even worn it in years.” Color rushes to my cheeks. Why am I saying this? Stop talking, Felicity. “Now … let’s just get this over with and be on our separate ways. Then you’ll never have to see me and think of this awkward moment again.”

“I’ll definitely be thinking about this again,” he says and pushes off his desk. I just now notice the flecks of paint on his hands and arms. If I hadn’t been so dumbstruck by his damn good looks, maybe I would have put two and two together and figured out he was Ben.

Though, I highly doubt that.

It was already in my mind that Ben was an older gay man, not a super attractive guy in his thirties with muscles and tattoos and a rather large bulge in his—

Stop. 

“Feel free,” I say and hold onto the strap of the heavy bag. Ben notices and steps forward to take it. Okay. Maybe he really isn’t an asshole. “So, your computers,” I start. “They were seriously old. How did you function?” I can be blunt right? We are past fake formalities by now.

Ben laughs. “I don’t use it much.” He must notice my shocked expression. “I bring my laptop with me everywhere I go and use that instead.”

“Oh good,” I say. “Because if you were one of those people that didn’t like computers, I’d … I’d really do nothing because I don’t know you and it wouldn’t matter at all.” I laugh, nervous. Fuck, why am I so awkward?

“We can change that,” he says, his dark eyes meeting mine and it’s like he’s looking into my soul, seeing how desperate I am for a good, hard fuck by something other than my neon-pink vibrator. Seriously, my wrists hurt from doing myself every night. Thanks, Mom, for forcing me to take piano lessons that started the wrist pain. Wait, no. Mom should be nowhere in this thought process. I blink and shake my head.

“But first,” he says when I just stare at him like he’s an all-you-can-eat cupcake buffet and I’m on a carb-free diet. “The computer situation. I did update what we have here. It’s easier to do bookkeeping in the office rather than brining my personal computer back and forth.”

“I bet. So you want me to set that up too?”

“I can do it.”

“I’m sure I can do it faster.”

He gets a devilish glint in his eyes. “I’m sure you can.”

Is he making a sexual joke or do I have a dirty mind? Fuck. Thinking about Ben and sex makes me warm and tingly all over. “Well, I’m here to help so … uh … I’ll help if you want my help, because that’s why I’m here. To help.” I internally wince at my own choice of words.

“So you can help?” he teases and goes around to his messy desk. I take a minute to look around the space. The “office” part opens into a large studio, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the street. Sheer curtains have been hung over them, several feet of fabric gathered on the floor. The walls are a mix of cracked plaster and exposed brick, and I’m not sure if it was done on purpose of if that it happened over time. It is very fitting for an art studio, nonetheless.

Shelves are pushed against the wall, every inch covered in paint, brushes, and other various materials. Several easels have been set up in the middle of the room, and some sort of statue was shoved in a corner, looking forgotten. The entire place is a mess, but it’s working. In fact, it wouldn’t work any other way. Chaos and creativity go hand in hand.

“That’s the new router you got?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s not very good.”

“The guy at the store recommended it.”

I put a hand on my hip. “You believe some teenager in a blue shirt over me?”

That grin is back on his handsome face. “How do I know you’re any more—or less—qualified?” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “Where did you go to school?”

“MIT,” I say right away then wish I could take it back. I got the majority of my schooling done there but actually graduated elsewhere.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What router should I get?”

“Considering the old wiring in this building, I’d get something stronger with a better range. I can write down some recs for you.”

His eyes fall onto my chest again. “Or we can go out to the store and get something together and then have dinner.”

“No,” I say right away, surprising myself. Hot Guy, aka, asshole-not-asshole Ben, just asked me out. Why is my gut telling me not to go? I’m not in high school anymore. This isn’t some setup to mock me. We’re adults. He wouldn’t ask me out if he didn’t actually want to go with me.

He looks taken aback, like he’s surprised at my insta-rejection. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope. I don’t have a husband either. I’m single.” Might as well get it all out there. “You?”

“No boyfriend or husband. And no official girlfriend or wife.”

“But you have something unofficial?”

“I date,” he tells me. “But it’s nothing serious.” I’m not sure what to think of that. “Look,” he says. “It’s not every day I spill coffee on a hot chick that thinks I’m an asshole.”

I smile. “That doesn’t happen to me every day either. Or ever. Really, it’s never happened.” I don’t remember the last time someone called me hot. Well, someone other than people at Comic Con admiring my accurate yet revealing costumes.

I put the router back in its package the best I can so Ben can return it. We start setting up the new computer.

“Do you have plans this weekend?” he asks me. I don’t, other than playing video games, working on my Comic Con costume, and binge watching Firefly on Netflix. “If not, I’d really like to take you out.”

“I think I can rearrange a few things,” I say. “Where are you going to take me?”

“What do you like?”

“When it comes to food? Uh, everything.”

He laughs, flashing perfect white teeth. “That’s easy. Friday night, eight o’clock?”

“Sure,” I say, a little breathless, and try my best to hide my smile. No harm can come of this, right? I push aside my initial fears to give this a go. I fire up the new computer and sit down. Ben goes into the studio and turns on music, streaming from his phone. It’s set to random, and goes through everything from Mozart to Pink Floyd. I keep stealing glances at him as I install the updates. Half his body is hidden behind an easel. His movements are frantic and jerky, unlike the smooth, graceful sweeps you see in a movie.

I catch a glimpse of his face and see he’s totally relaxed and in his element, even though I’m here. It doesn’t take long to get everything running. I use the old router to set up the internet, and even with the new computer, it’s slow as fuck. Or it is by my standards. But the website loads without a hitch. I love being right.

“It’s done,” I say and scoot the rolling chair back. I move my gaze to Ben. He’s enthralled in whatever he’s painting. Mindy said he doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s working. Did that still apply? He likes something about me, and I don’t want to mess it up before we have a chance to even go out. I pack up everything and wait.

“Ben?” I finally call, voice soft.

He doesn’t look up.

“Ben?” I say a little louder. He flicks his eyes to me, seeming annoyed. There’s something dark in the way he looks at me, but it quickly vanishes as my name rolls of his tongue.

“Felicity. Are you done already?”