“No. I was just getting the lowdown on office allergies.” He moves closer, leaning against the bar, looking like a tall drink of man. I break out my mental yardstick. Yup, I’m betting he’s over six feet. I’m going with six foot one. Which might even push him to a fifteen on the goes-to-ten babe-o-meter.

“So you’re on drinks detail,” I say, trying to sound all cool and casual, like I’m not busy sizing him up.

Not consumed with checking out his arms.
Not occupied admiring his blue eyes.
Not tied up enjoying his smile.

He points his thumb at his sternum. “New guy. That means I fetch all the drinks and buy them too. And you? What put you on errand duty?”

“I made my friend snort her drink out her nose.”

He looks impressed. “You officially have the best reason for being on drink detail.”

I preen, enjoying his praise. “Why, thank you. I was hoping to win that contest.”

“What was the snort-inducing remark, may I ask?”

Flashing back, I recall the culprit—my “you need V-time” comment to Peyton—but that’s too personal to share. I give him another one. “I referred to her ex-fiancé by his proper name.”

Clark Kent gives me a curious look. “Is his proper name amusing?”

“Of course. It’s Richard Cranium,” I say, and I wait. Will he pass the test?