To say it had surprised me to see the hot guy from the coffee shop at my new job is an understatement. Quinn. His name is Quinn. And he’s adorable. Wait, no. He isn’t adorable. The way he’d concentrated on signing had been adorable. Okay, not adorable. It had been nice. Or fine, even. Yeah, definitely just fine. And there’s nothing wrong with professional interest. Which obviously is all this is. My heart is racing because of first-day nerves. That’s totally understandable and has nothing to do with the almost frightening level of attraction I’m feeling. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fine. He’s attractive. But under no circumstances will I do anything about it. I don’t need that complication. No hookups, no dating, no relationship. I’m fine just as things are. Plus Quinn doesn’t know ASL. Okay, he seems to know the basics, but I have no interest in playing instructor. Not with ASL, anyway. Wait! Jesus, what is wrong with me? Even thinking about that with a coworker, especially one I just met, is supremely stupid. I watch Quinn leave and remind myself he’s a distraction, no matter how hot he is. But damn, Quinn MacDougall is very hot. In fact, he ticks all my boxes. Tall? Check. He’s at least six-feet. Blue eyes? Check. They are a beautiful deep blue, and I could lose myself in their velvety depths. Even his dark red hair and smattering of freckles work for me. And Fit? Dear god, check. Quinn has the broad chest, back, and seriously wide shoulders of a swimmer. I’ll bet he’s a breaststroke man. I very purposely do not imagine him in a competition speedo. Walking around the office with a hard-on would not be a good idea.