Margot’s lush pink lips pinch together.
Voices drift through the door.
Theo Monroe and Jonas Rutherford.
From what Decker’s told me about Theo, I suspect he wouldn’t blink at two people being in a broom closet together unless he thought one was harming the other.
As for Jonas, I don’t know how he’d react to two people in a broom closet, though I do know who’s renting out the retreat center next week, and the bits of the conversation I overheard just now suggest he’s okay with that, so he probably wouldn’t blink either.
Margot’s gaze shifts to the door again. Her hands are still resting on my chest, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet she’scalculating the odds she’ll feel the need to fling herself at me, climb me like a tree, and kiss me to put on the show that we’re secretly fucking around while we’re working.
My damn dick decides he likes that idea and lifts to half-mast.
I could make noise.
Rattle a shelf.
Something subtle enough that she’d have to throw herself at me, and I could see if she tastes like a shark, or if she tastes like a complicated, red-blooded woman who might want some stress relief between the sheets while she’s here.
Knock it off, dumbass, I tell my libido and the more Neanderthal half of my brain.
I’m not sleeping with Margot Merriweather-Brown.
I’m not sleeping withanyone.
Ever.
For the rest of my life.
Not after what Felice did to me.
The voices outside the closet fade.
I open my mouth, but Margot lifts a hand and holds up a single commanding finger.
Be quiet. Don’t talk yet.
I know that finger well.
Used to get it from my stepfather.
Two seconds pass.
Three.
Five.
Eventually, ten or so seconds later, she drops both of her hands and takes the smallest step back. “I won’t discuss this with you here.”
“Herein the broom closet, orherein the state of Colorado?”
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“Skillet, I’ve been around your type in one way or another most of my life. I know to be specific.”
“Skillet?”
“It’s that or Margot. Which one do you want me to call you?”
