“Don’t apologize again.Once is enough.Just drop it, okay?”
I nod even though it feels anything but okay.My thoughtless actions unearthed the fear lurking in her expressive hazel eyes.I hate it.I need to make it right, but I don’t know how.
She sighs and rubs her forehead before turning her whole body to face mine and pinching the small diamond piercings above her left eyebrow.
“Do you know what these are called?”
I shake my head.Her unexpected question fills me with uncertainty, but I give her my full attention.
“They’re dermal piercings.They only last a handful of years before you remove them, and then you’re left with a scar for the rest of your life.These,” she traces the three above her brow, the one near her temple, and the one below the corner of her eye, “are the least damaging of all my piercings.These,” she points to the two curved bars in her other eyebrow, the jewel in her nose, and the ring in her lip, “and these,” she gestures toward the multitude of small, thin rings and simple gems in her ears, “could leave much worse damage if pulled or yanked out, so forgive me if I overreacted earlier.”
I want to believe her explanation, but her nonchalance and reluctance to meet my eyes—as well as all the other times she’s frozen in fear—tell me there’s more to the story.
“Look at me, Penelope.”
She pulls her lip ring into her mouth but releases it just as fast at my sharp inhale.
Damn my overeager cock.I lean back on the wall of the elevator and shove my hands into my pants pockets.
She refuses to lift her gaze to mine.
“Thanks for the explanation, but that’s not everything, is it, sweet pea?”
She slumps and crosses her arms over her chest.Hope brightens her expression when the elevator stops on our floor, but I reach out, press the button to keep the doors closed, and slip my hand back into my pocket.
I can wait.Even if she wants to stand here in silence until the end of the day—which is technically in less than two hours—I’ll stay right here with her.Nothing is more important than hearing her speak.
With her stubborn streak, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s never told anyone about why she flinches whenever anyone gets too close.
As we stand with the tension between us growing, I worry I’ve pushed her too far.It’s her first day of work.She has yet to meet her coworkers.We haven’t solidified our friendship, much less our new boss-employee relationship, and I keep taking things too far.She has no reason to trust me.
My heart leaps into my throat when she gives the cutest little half-growl, half-grunt.Laced with annoyance and frustration, the sound announces her thoughts without giving an answer.
“Fine.Look.”
She angles her body partially away from me, tilts her chin to her chest, and lifts a section of her hair.A thick, jagged scar a little more than an inch long peeks out through her locks.
Every muscle in my body stiffens.My mind refuses to process the sight.I curse my wayward body but am powerless to stop myself as I push off the wall and cup the hand holding her hair out of the way.
Her trembling breaks my heart.
“When did this happen?How?”I croak.
“My sophomore year.I tripped in the hall and hit it on an open locker.”
My suspicion grows.She says the answer as though she practiced it a million times, and no matter how clumsy she may have been as an awkward young teen, the location of the scar makes her story even less believable.
I trace the raised flesh with the pad of my finger.
“Did you need stitches?”
She shrugs.Wordless fury builds in me as more suspicions rise.
“You didn’t tell your teachers or your parents, did you?”
I can’t help the accusation in my tone.
She shrugs again.
