I whistle low. “Damn. All because I existed in public near a camera?”
“All because you behave like a toddler with a credit card,” she replies.
I grin. “You’re very bossy for someone wearing heels that small.”
“And you’re very confident for someone one infraction away from a possible long-term suspension.
I pretend that doesn’t horrify me.
She folds her hands. “Do you even read these reports?”
“Sometimes.”
“Be honest.”
“No.”
She sighs in a way that suggests she regrets having a working nervous system. “Bryce, you need to take this seriously.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I counter.
“Barely.”
Her ponytail swings when she stands, moving around her desk. She’s close now, the kind of close that makes my pants tighten in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
Strawberries. Her perfume smells like strawberries. It shouldn’t be legal.
“Look,” she says, “I don’t care if you think this is a joke. My job is to keep the organization out of trouble.”
“And I’m the trouble?”
“You’re like a public-relations smoke alarm that won’t stop going off,” she replies. “So, yes.”
I try, really try, to focus on the words, but her mouth keeps getting in the way. Not literally, unfortunately.
She taps the file. “I need you to clean up your image. No more bar ‘misunderstandings.’ No more late-night drama. No more chaotic lives.”
“Lives?”
“Lives. Plural. You tend to create more than one at a time.”
I take a step toward her.
Most people step back. Most people trip over their own feet. Most people suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.
Annabelle doesn’t move. Not an inch.
It throws me off so badly I forget whatever intimidating thing I was about to say.
“You’re not scared of me,” I say.
She lifts her gaze. “Should I be?”
“Most people are.”
“Most people don’t sign your paychecks.” she retorts, brushing past me to grab another file.
That… is a good point. An annoying point. A point I have no comeback for.
