“Thanks for coming up.”

“I didn’t realize I had a choice.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Of course you did.”

“The cake pops would suggest otherwise.”

“You’d do anything for a dozen cake pops?” he asked, one eyebrow going up in a way she found sexy, distracting, and annoying all at the same time.

“In my world, a dozen cake pops are a serious gesture. Someone must really need my attention to send those.”

“Duly noted.”

He hadn’t expected her to show up here? Right. “I don’t remember the note with the one o’clock meeting on it including a question mark,” she said dryly.

“I’ll admit I’m not used to people not wanting to spend time with me,” he said in a flirty, self-deprecating way she was sure he thought was adorably sexy.

He was kind of right.

“Well, here I am, so I guess your ego can pretend that your record is intact,” she said. “For now.”

His grinned at her add-on. “For some reason I have no question that my ego will always know exactly where it stands with you around.”

“I think that’s a fair assumption,” she admitted.

“Want to share what’s going on with the rest of the class?” Oliver asked, coming up next to Dax.

She’d been vaguely aware that he’d been sitting in the green beanbag. But honestly, Dax—and the presence of beanbags in the first place—had sidetracked her from many of the other details of the room. Like other people.

And like the narrow table that was sitting under the window along the west wall. The table that held a collection of glass jars that were full of what appeared to be gummy bears and M&Ms.

“I have a sweet tooth,” Dax said, noticing her gaze.

“I remember,” she said before she thought better of it.

He gave her a sexy grin.

Ollie interrupted, extending his hand. “Hello, again.”

“Hello, Mr. Caprinelli.” She took his hand a bit sheepishly. The last time she’d talked to him, she hadn’t been especially friendly. Or professional.

“Good God, call him Oliver. Or Ollie,” Dax said. “When I hear Caprinelli, I look around for his grandmother and a plate of cannoli. Then I’m disappointed when I realize someone is talking about the guy who thinks Hamburger Helper can technically be considered pasta.”

“It can be,” Ollie insisted. “It’s got pasta in it.”

“How do you even face your grandparents?” Dax asked him. “How do you not feel your Italian ancestors stabbing your soul with their ravioli cutters from their graves?”

“Ravioli cutters aren’t really appropriate for stabbing,” Oliver said. “They’ve got rollers and they’re for cutting ravioli out of rolled out sheets of pasta.”

“Are there special forks for making pasta? Or for eating pasta?” Dax asked. “Because they’d be stabbing you with those.”

“We always just used regular forks,” Oliver told him.

Dax shook his head as if disappointed. “Well, at least I know you used a spoon with the forks to twirl the spaghetti.” He looked at Jane. “His grandmother taught me how to do that.” Then he looked back at Oliver. “Your ancestors’ spirits are stabbing you with regular forks.”

“Weird, I don’t feel a thing,” Oliver said.

“Is Hamburger Helper a pasta?” Dax suddenly asked Jane. “And be honest. You don’t have to worry about hurting his feelings.”

Jane had been watching and listening to this exchange with a mix of amusement and a touch of they-can’t-be-serious. But they’d seemed serious.

“Uh…” She looked at both men then decided to actually think about what they were asking. Finally, she shrugged and answered honestly. “Yeah, I guess I would have classified it as a pasta dish. I mean, most of them have noodles or something in them.”

Dax’s eyes widened and he slowly shook his head. “Wow. I almost don’t want to sleep with you as much now.”

Jane felt her mouth drop open. That was… kind of funny. She was definitely realizing that thinking she knew what to expect from this guy was a big miscalculation. “Almost?” she finally said.

“Well, now I have to make you pasta and show just how far from the real thing Hamburger Helper is,” Dax said.

“What does that have to do with us sleeping together?” she asked. Probably stupidly.

“Once you’ve had my homemade pasta, you’re going to be all over me,” he said very matter-of-factly. “And I won’t be able to resist you offering to do all the dirty things with those cake pops.”

She felt warmth flood through her. It was maybe because she hadn’t pegged him for the type of guy to make homemade pasta. It was probably because the charm and confidence just dripped from him like the sugary syrup that dripped out of the icing machine downstairs. It was definitely not because he kept surprising her. She didn’t want to hang out with a guy who kept her on her toes. Her toes were very tired from all the time she spent on them.

“The cake pops you sent are going to get very stale,” she said. Unless he wanted to make her that pasta tonight…

“Well, obviously you’ll have to bring new ones over when you come to dinner.” He gave her a wink. “It’s the least you can do when I’m making you dinner and rocking your world.”

Yeah, that confidence was oozing.

She looked at Ollie, who had been standing there just watching the entire exchange. “Isn’t this sexual harassment or something?” she asked.

He looked at Dax. “Do you feel harassed?”

“Not a bit.”

“I meant me,” she said, fighting a smile.

“Oh.” Ollie tried to look concerned. “Are you feeling harassed? I mean, you don’t have to do a single thing he says, and if you knee him in the balls, all I’m going to need is a little warning, so I can get my phone out to record it, but if you’re feeling harassed I’ll… do something about it.”

She shook her head. She could not smile about this. She was definitely not feeling harassed, and she had a feeling pasta and cake pops were in her and Dax’s future—she’d worry about what that meant later—but she couldn’t pass up this opportunity to make a point.

“You should probably figure out what you would do if someone came to you with an actual sexual harassment complaint,” she said.

Ollie nodded and went to the door and pulled it open. “Piper?”

“Yeah?” Jane heard the other woman answer.

“Do we have a sexual harassment policy?”

“We do,” she said. “It’s don’t sexually harass people.”

Ollie looked back at Jane. She shook her head. “More.”

“We need more than that,” he told Piper.

“No shit,” Piper retorted. “It’s in the file on your computer.”

“Which file?”

“The one labeled Sexual Harassment Policy,” she said, her tone long suffering. “I apologize for hiding it like that.”

Oliver grinned. “Want to go over it with me at lunch?”