The impish sparkle in her hazel eyes as she said it has played on repeat in my head since she pivoted on her pretty little, pink-painted toes and walked out of the room.
An agent has been sitting outside her house since I left last night, and after she practically fucking dared me to get an agent assigned to her, it’s been my personal mission today to get that done. The request is on a judge’s desk waiting for a signature.
I don’t know what I’m doing? Fuck that.
I know when a woman likes to be kissed. Women lovewhen I kiss them. Although I’ve been so busy with work for the past eight or nine months that I haven’t even given women a second thought.
Why do I even fucking care?
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and finger and squeeze my eyes closed to try to reset my thinking, but for some reason those plump lips and the cocky way she crossed her arms over her chest are the first thing I see when I close my eyes.
Damn it, I don’t have the time or inclination for this.
Sanders leans his ass on the edge of my desk while I’m typing up a report. “So, what’s the deal with the blond last night?”
Of course he wants to know about the blond. Nothing is off-limits according to him, as long as you don’t get caught, it didn’t happen. I don’t even know how he’s kept his job.
Not looking up at him, I try not to show my irritation and keep typing. “No deal.”
I decided last night I will not think about the relief I felt when she said she wasn’t married with a ten-foot pole. It’s none of my business whether she’s married or not, all I care about is that she’s a witness. That’s all I need to care about.
“Is she single? Do you have dibs already? What’s her story?” He has a sucker in his mouth, and the slurping sound of him pulling it between his lips sets my teeth on edge.
If you look up douchebag in the dictionary, Sanders’ picture will be stamped on the page. I’m pretty sure he owns one style of shirt in ten different colors, every day he’s in a long sleeve henley with too many buttons undone over his chest.
Then there’s the giant watch on his wrist and gold ring on his finger that looks like a college class ring. I don’t think I bothered with a class ring in college. Not even when I was in the Army Rangers. Who does?
Sanders is a player who promises women anything they want until they sleep with him and then he moves on. His type gives men a bad name. He’s a fucking asshole.
My mom taught me everything she wanted me to know about women, all of which included respect and patience. Something about ‘the blond’ last night pushes every bit of patience I’ve been taught to the limit.
But at the same time, the thought of him even touching her makes me want to rip his jugular out with my bare hands.
All focus on what I was typing goes out the window, and I take a deep breath as I sit back in my squeaky desk chair and lift a brow. “She’s not available to you.”
He sticks his sucker back in his mouth and pushes it into his cheek with a big smile. It grossly scrapes over his teeth as he does. “You gonna make a move?”
Linking my fingers in front of me, I tap the pads of my thumbs together as I stare at him. “She’s a witness, Sanders, that would go against protocol.”
His smile gets even bigger, the purposeful day-old stubble not hiding the laugh lines on his cheeks, and he pulls the sucker from his mouth after it taps annoyingly against his teeth again. “She shot you down, didn’t she? Ha! I knew it. Swan and I had a bet.”
I lift my eyebrows and shake my head. Just as I’m about to tell him what a dick he is, I hear my name from across the room.
“Abbot!” Assistant Director Dunn bellows and closes his office door after we make eye contact.
Fuck.
“You’re in deep shit. We had a bet on that, too.” He pops his sucker back in his mouth as he slinks away like the fucking snake he is.
I lock my computer and cross the island of cubicles and computer monitors to knock on Dunn’s door.
“Come in. Close the door behind you.” He doesn’t lift his head from the paperwork on his desk and just points at the chair across from him with his pen.
The shine on top of his head through thinning hair reflects the light from the overhead fluorescents. His tie is askew around his neck, and his bifocals are perched on his nose like a librarian.
He’s been in this office since the 80s, and the crappy furniture proves it. Even the cubicles out in the fishbowl don’t have the type of fake wood veneer on them he has on this desk.
Grinding my teeth, I sit in the chair and watch the asshole look between his screen and the paperwork on his desk. The silence in the room is pulling the muscles across my shoulders tighter with each passing second.
