I give him a false, cheery smile and throw my long red hair over my shoulder. “Me? Plotting? Ladies do not plot, Mr. Porter. We simply ponder.”
“Dangerous hobby for you,” he replies with a snort. “I’ve seen where it leads.”
Weston’s one of those annoyingly put-together people. Six-one, dark skin, razor-sharp jawline, and biceps that strain against his shirt sleeves because he does CrossFit five days a week. Hence the protein bar. But he’s got kind eyes behind those chic, black-frame glasses and a brain that works fast enough to keep up with mine. He’s also funny, driven, and all-around decent, which in a New York newsroom makes him practically an endangered species.
If I were in any kind of dating chapter of my life—which I’m emphatically not—he’d be exactly the type I’d go for.
Unfort
