Mitchell shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t for no other reason than his body was outright exhausted. He hadn’t had a chance to relax, truly, in over a week. His muscles ached for sleep, but his mind kept retching him from that unconscious place.
All because of her. All because of Ella.
*She’s not interested*, his conscience continually insisted. *She’s your coworker, she’s off limits*.
*But she gave you her number*, the hopeless romantic and animalistic side of him retorted. *All on her own, and she is constantly looking for you, asking about you, about your day. She wants to be near you.*
And to be near her, oh, God. She always smelled amazing, always looked so soft. More than once, they’d be stacking shelves, and he had to resist the urge to reach out to her. To touch. To let himself feel the exposed skin at the small of her back when she reached for a high shelf and her shirt rode up. To see if the curve of her hip felt as plush as it looked. And sometimes, when they were both bent in half, throwing bags of frozen produce into their respective places in the freezers, his body would go electric. All he would have had to do is dare to lean over, press his lips to the pulse of her neck. But no.