Her Favorite Rival by Sarah Mayberry

have Singapore noodles.”
    “That makes it easy, because that’s what I’m having, too.”
    He moved back to his seat as she grabbed her phone and placed an order for two servings of Singapore noodles.
    “Ten minutes,” she said when she ended the call.
    “Cool.”
    He told himself not to even think of taking his eyes off the page, but it didn’t stop him from glancing across at her breasts to confirm that, yes, he could see the faint outline of lace beneath the silky fabric of her shirt. He wondered what the rest of her bra looked like, and if she was wearing matching underwear. He had a real thing about French knickers. Maybe she was wearing a pair, all chocolate satin and lace.
    He could feel himself growing hard, desire starting up a drumbeat of demand in his groin.
    Good one, doofus.
    Exactly what he needed, an inappropriate hard-on. What was he, fifteen?
    Very deliberately, he thought back to the brief encounter he’d had with Henry Whitman earlier in the week. They’d crossed paths in the corridor and the other man had pulled Zach up and fired a series of questions at him about his product selection for the upcoming summer catalog. He’d questioned Zach’s favoring of one brand over another, suggesting strongly that he reconsider his decision, his manner brusque and steely. Zach had been left feeling like a naughty kid, not something he particularly relished at the ripe old age of thirty. Worse, he’d been left with the impression that Whitman wasn’t exactly overwhelmed by his performance to date.
    He glanced down at his crotch. Yep, that seemed to have done the trick. Erection well and truly gone. Nothing like imminent castration via job loss to take the heat out of a man’s libido.
    “I’ll be back in ten. You want anything to drink?” Audrey said, pushing back her chair and standing.
    “I’ll go,” he said, reaching for his jacket.
    “You went last night.”
    “What can I say? I’m a homemaker. I love to feed people.”
    She smiled. “Funny. But it’s my turn.”
    “Why don’t we both go? Then we can argue about who’s paying all the way there and back.”
    Her eyes widened with outrage. “I’m paying. You paid for the pizza. That is absolutely nonnegotiable.”
    “We’ll see,” he said.
    True to his prediction, she argued her side every step of the way to the garage, only shutting up when he beeped open his car and held the door for her.
    “Wow. This is like the first-class section on the plane. Not that I’ve ever sat in first class, mind you. But I’ve taken a peek through the curtain.”
    She slid into the seat, one hand stroking the leather armrest reverently. Never in his entire life had he been so jealous of an inanimate object.
    “I guess this makes the commute a whole lot more fun, huh?” she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.
    “It takes some of the pain out, yeah.”
    He started the car and drove out of the garage, very aware of her watching him work the clutch and change gears. He reminded himself that now would not be a good time to stall.
    “Why do men always buy manual cars?”
    “Because we like to be in control. Why do women always buy automatics?”
    “Because we like to conserve our energy for more important things.”
    “I have plenty of energy left to spare, don’t worry.”
    The moment he said it he regretted it. So far, they’d kept their banter strictly PG, but he knew she hadn’t missed the innuendo in his tone.
    So much for keeping his eye on the ball.
    “I think the Malaysian place is up here in that group of shops,” she said after a small pause.
    “Got it.”
    He stayed in the car while she went inside to collect their meal, punishing himself for his slipup by only allowing himself a one-second glance at her ass as she disappeared through the door. Whoever invented those figure-hugging skirts knew what she was doing, that was for sure.
    He gave himself another lecture while he waited, reminding himself of everything they had at