Broken Rules

Chapter Seventeen

There are three things I know.

The first. I am desperately attracted to Wells Hansen. It's not the fleeting "oh, he's hot" kind of attraction that you forget about twenty minutes later. It's more like the "I want you shirtless" type. The "I want your hands all over my body" kind of attraction.

The second thing. Whatever is happening between us isn't one-sided, like I had originally thought. The other night, he wanted to kiss me, and I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to bridge that centimeter gap between us and kiss me until I couldn't breathe.

And I would have let him do a lot more to me than just a kiss. I would have let him hoist me onto that small counter in the wine cellar, stepping in between my legs. I would have let his hands roaming under my clothing, tracing his mouth down my neck. He'd slip his hands und–.

I'm getting sidetracked. Focus Juniper.

And the third and final thing: None of this can happen. It just can't. For a multitude of reasons. Firstly, it's Wells Hansen, the man I've despised for the last two years. Secondly, I made a no-boys pact with my friends for the summer, and when I commit to something, I follow through. And lastly, there's a very strict no-fraternizing rule at work. If I broke it, I'd get fired. I'd lose my job.

Oh, and I'm supposed to be getting over my two-year-long relationship.

I make a mental note to Google what a reasonable amount of time is before you can officially consider yourself "moved on" from a relationship. I'm pretty certain one month is too short. At this point, anything with anyone would easily be labeled as a rebound, right?

And there's no way I can do rebounds, or hookups, or a one-night stand. I'm just not that kind of girl. I know, because the one time I attempted a one-night stand, I ended up befriending all his roommates, playing with his dog, and even watering his plants before I left the next morning. He had to very kindly ask me to leave.

It's just not physically possible for me. I like commitment. I like the idea of spooning in the middle of the night, the waking up next to the same person in the morning, and making breakfast together. I love everything that screams commitment. Hence two years of Beckett Moore.

"Excuse me." A man suddenly appears, snapping me out of my thoughts and redirecting my attention away from Wells. He points to the table next to me and asks, "Is someone sitting here?"

"Oh, um, no, I don't think so," I reply, shaking my head. Was there someone sitting there before? I've been so lost in my thoughts that I haven't been paying attention.

The man takes a seat, and I shift my focus back to Wells behind the counter, busy helping another customer.

He's not in his usual Hansen's Coffee Roasters uniform; instead, he's dressed in his typical Seattle Sun Times work attire. It's probably because he wasn't scheduled to work today; we were supposed to work together on this article. It's the last official interview we have, and then we can return to how things were before. I can maintain my distance from him.