Boomerang by Noelle August Page A

crossed, her foot tapping. She looks from me to Mia. Probably, she’s sensed the shift in the mood between us, but I don’t give a shit.
    “This is the layout we’re using for this year’s show,” Candy says, gesturing to a large booth that’s shaped like a T. “Blackwood is paying for an end location—that means he’ll have 180 degrees of coverage. We’ll use the same color palette and furnishings, the same look as last year, but we’ll divide the booth with a wall, keeping the lounge to one side, and the computer terminals to the other. That way the people who feel more inclined to linger and mingle can, while the ones who just want to see the website can log on, check it out, and move on. Any questions?”
    Mia and I look at each other.
    “Wait,” she says, “you mean the booth for the conference is already planned? It’s done ?”
    “No. It’s not paid for yet. You did bring the company credit card?”
    I’ve got nothing. It’s all I can do not to start breaking booth shit right now.
    Mia is quiet at my side.
    Candy’s face splits into a smile. “You didn’t actually think my sister was going to let you two make a decision, did you?”
    I still can’t think of a single thing to say, and apparently Mia can’t either.
    “Oh, you did .” Candy shakes her head. “That is so cute.”

 Chapter 15 
     
    Mia
     
    Q: Are you a pouter or a problem-solver?
     
    W e stop at a park to split a sandwich before heading back to the Boomerang offices. I watch as Ethan brushes leaves off a picnic bench for me, his dress shirt coming loose from his belt to expose a narrow swatch of tanned flesh.
    Oh, Mia , I think. You are so screwed.
    Because of his body, sure: the sleek solidity of it, the feel of him, pressed against me. Hard. The sensation of being exactly right, molecule-to-molecule, as he set me down in the display showroom.
    But I can resist a body. I’m screwed because of his smile, because of that dimple that deepens when he laughs, his straight, even teeth, perfect except for one slightly turned incisor. I’m screwed because of his thick, serious brows, his perfect angular nose, and his eyes like a lake in the rain. I’m screwed, most of all, because of his kindness, which radiates from every pore. His passion, when he lets himself talk about things he loves. Because he insisted on paying me back for the cab and on paying for our sandwich. I’m screwed because of him, all of him. My body and my brain are conspiring against me here, but I can’t let myself give in to them.
    “What are we going to do about this Cookie situation?” I ask, swatting away a fly that’s settled on the wax paper spread open between us. I move my half of the turkey and avocado sandwich toward me and pop open my diet Coke. It bubbles onto my hand, and I lick my finger then catch him watching me, which threatens to send me down another path of truly unproductive thinking.
    “Situation?” he murmurs, raising his eyes slowly to mine like he’s coming out of a dream.
    “Yeah. Cookie. She’s going to keep making it tough for either of us to get this job. Though I don’t know why.”
    “Maybe an intern killed her mother.”
    I laugh. “Or her missing triplet, Cupcake.”
    Ethan takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. His strong jaw flexes, and I have to say, the boy even makes eating look good.
    “I guess we can keep working on her, try to thaw her out a bit. But we probably need to get around her and go for Adam.”
    “And say what? His booth design sucks?”
    He grins. “Something like that.” Finishing his sandwich in two more bites, he adds, “Maybe I should do the talking, Curls. I’ve noticed you have some issues with diplomacy.”
    “Yeah, because your chocolate chip cookie gambit was so impressive.” A seedpod spirals down between us, and I finger-punt it off the table. Even though I brought it up, suddenly I resent talking about work. “Maybe you can work on Adam during your soccer game this