The last is said dryly, but I’ve spent enough time with him by now to know that the slight upward tug of his lips indicates amusement. “Very funny. So to recap, you’re a good Samaritan who’s really not dating Sapphire Springs’ one claim to beauty pageantry glory.”
Donovan picks up the orange and begins to peel it, setting the pieces of the rind in a neat pile: one, two, three, four. “I’m not dating anyone,” he says. “To be perfectly clear.”
“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Why not?”
A fifth piece of the peel joins the rest. “I work a lot. How about you? Is there a Mr. Chaos who’s going to be wondering about your whereabouts?”
“Why?” I counter. “Are you wondering whether such a mythical creature could possibly exist?”
“Just curious.” He’s succeeded in denuding the orange of its peel and is methodically separating it into sections. The entire office smells of it, tart and sweet.
“No Mr. Chaos. Mythical or otherwise.”
“Hmmm,” Donovan says, as if weighing this information.
My stomach growls, having apparently decided that a granola bar was an insufficient dinner, and his eyebrows rise. “Hungry?”
“I’m fine,” I start to tell him, but he’s already gotten up and is striding toward me, orange in hand.
“Open up,” he says, to my surprise, and when I do, he slips the segment of orange into my mouth. The pad of his thumb grazes my lip, sending an involuntary shiver through me.
“Can I ask you one more question?” he says, studying my face. “Why did Charlotte call me Sex Spreadsheet Guy?”
I almost choke on my orange. “You heard that?”
“Yep.” He grins at me.
“You are such an…an….ugh!” I shove his shoulder, which is pretty damn muscular for a guy who spends so much time in front of a computer. “And you just let me go on and on with thattext spreadsheets nighbit? What is wrong with you?”
“Me? I don’t think I’m the problem here.” He offers me another piece of orange. “Focus, Chaos. Sex Spreadsheet Guy. Discuss.”
Maybe I never woke up after I passed out last night. Maybe this is a hallucination. I decide to go with that theory, which is my only excuse for what happens next. “Blame Georgia in Marketing,” I say, violating the #1 rule of the sisterhood: Never throw another woman under the bus. “She thinks you have sex according to a color-coded spreadsheet. She’s pretty convinced of it, actually. Because you’re so, you know, organized.”And hot,I think, but mercifully manage to keep to myself.
Donovan blanches. “Holy shit. She…what? Is she friends with Mrs. Grant? Are they part of a cult?”
Despite myself, I snicker. “No cult. Just a lot of free time.”
“Hmmm.” He regards me, his gaze lingering on my mouth again. “How did Georgia come to this conclusion? Did she take a poll?” His eyebrows knit. “Did you vote in it?”
“There you go again,” I sigh. “Always obsessed with the data.”
For the second time since we met, I startle Donovan Frost into an honest-to-God laugh. “Rune,” he says when he winds down. “This might be inappropriate, in which case please tell me so, but I, um, I really…”
There are so many ways he could finish that sentence:I really think you’re weird. I really dig oranges.Or something else entirely, which, even though this man drives me insane, I would 100 percent be here for. Whether I was willing to admit it to myself or not, ever since I woke up to the sensation of his fingers stroking my cheek, I’ve wanted to feel it again. And the way he’s looking at me right now, I could swear he’s on the same page.
I hold my breath. And naturally, at this inopportune moment, my cell phone rings.
Slipping it out of my jeans pocket, I glance down to see Charlotte’s name on the screen. I’ve managed to keep my worries about the monster at bay, but now they come roaring back with a vengeance. “I have to take this,” I say, slipping past Donovan and out into the hallway. Whatever information Charlotte might’ve gleaned, I don’t want an audience when I hear it.
“Hey,” I tell her. “Hold on.”
When I’ve gone far enough down the hallway to ensure privacy, I lean against the wall, across from a framed photo of a Tuscan villa. My heart’s beating so hard, I can feel it pounding everywhere, in my wrists and throat and chest. “Okay,” I say, though it’s anything but. “Tell me.”
Charlotte clears her throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, Rune. Your monster died in his cell last night.”
Chapter
Sixteen
