Kincaid stands to the side of me and says, “Do you see that girl?” I see her, I think. Sydney Denik, hot mess express. “That’s what I’m up against,” he says, his voice so low and rough that it sends fingers up my spine. “That’s who makes it so damn hard to come to work every day because I have to pretend. Pretend I don’t want her. Pretend I don’t need her. Pretend I don’t crave her.”
