Liam closes more of the distance between us, intent on invading my personal space in a display of dominance.
“No. No, let me explain,” I scramble, palms in a white-flag gesture of surrender as he advances. One accidentally touches his chest, and I quickly bring it away.
“By all means, do explain,” he snaps, jaw clenching with tightly leashed impatience. “What, you just happened to trip mid-stride, and it materialized out of your pocket and onto my desk?”
“Obviously not.” I wince at his scathing sarcasm. “The sample was . . . well, it was from my cat, specifically.”
He stares, eyes flickering between disbelief and outright revulsion. “And that’s meant to improve this situation . . . how, exactly?”
I swallow hard. I can’t tell him Lizzie brought in my forgotten files.
He’s so close now. I can practically feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, mixing with the scent of his cologne and creating a heady, slightly terrifying aroma.
“I was taking a sample to the vet. My cat’s been having some stomach issues, and they needed a sample. It must’ve accidentally ended up on your desk when I was dropping off those reports earlier. I’m so sorry, sir. It was a genuine mistake.”
The silence that follows is heavy, each second stretching out painfully as he just . . . stares at me.
“Is this your twisted way of expressing your true feelings about me? Some perverse act of rebellion?”
“What?” I freeze, my eyes widening in disbelief. “No, absolutely not! I can’t believe you’d think that. Miss Winchester-Scott—my cat,” I quickly clarify, “required the stool analysis. I’m dreadfully sorry about . . . all of this.” I wave my hand vaguely, encompassing the entire situation.
Good grief, pull yourself together, woman.
Something flickers behind his eyes—realization, incredulity, or maybe just the simple fact that he’s witnessing his head of HR go completely off the rails in real time.
He shoots a quick glance at the open office outside his glass walls, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he realizes we’re now the main attraction.
With a subtle step back, he puts just enough distance between us to restore a hint of professional decorum.
“Miss Winchester-Scott,” he repeats with exaggerated slowness, “is your . . . cat.”
I blink. “Yes?” I say slowly, drawing out the word. Talk about a weird thing to get hung up on.
He regards me for a long, loaded moment, face impassive except for the hint of a smirk he seems to be fighting off.
Then Liam bursts into deep, rumbling laughter.
At what, I haven’t the slightest clue. He turned forty this year—it might be a mid-life crisis kicking in. Or he’s finally snapping from the pressure of being the top dog. Or maybe he just really likes cats.
I laugh nervously along with him, even though I’m not in on the joke. It’s a high-pitched, slightly manic sound.
Either way, I’ll take it. Better to deal with laughter than the alternative, which probably involves a security escort out of the building.
As the laughter dies down, I shift uneasily, trying to gauge the mood. Has this truly transitioned into a shared joke between us now?
“Let me just take that off your hands,” I murmur, leaning forward to gingerly pluck the offending specimen with the tips of my fingers.
Clearing my throat, I decide the only viable path forward is to play this entire fiasco off as a silly little mishap hardly worth dwelling on further. “Once again, I’m terribly sorry about that. Please accept my apologies.”
His lips thin as he studies me. “Close the door on your way out.”
CHAPTER 10
Liam
I watch Gemma sprintout of my office, her red ponytail swishing.
I thought I had her all figured out. But now, the woman’s leaving cat shit on my desk and somehow walking away unscathed. Who knew HR could be so feral?
