Page 29 of Hard to Handle

I clear my throat. “For reaffirming that Chad wasn’t right for me.”

“How’d I do that?” he asks.

And what I meant as a completely innocent comment on the fly—one I somehow didn’t get out correctly, now just screwed me. How do I answer this? How do I tell him that I felt more alive in the few moments his lips met mine than I did the whole damn time Chad and I dated? Dated? Maybe more like were companions.

Because now I’m stuck staring at his blue eyes that are questioning me and I can’t really give him an answer without showing my cards. Professionally and personally.

“Because . . . I . . . uh missed his call last night when we were in the elevator,” I lie. And internally roll my eyes. I missed a call? Pfft.

“I’m not following you.” His smile widens.

Shit.

“Um, a man who wanted to fight for me would have called back. He would have—”

“Kissed you like I kissed you? Is that what you were going for?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Yes. That’s exactly why.

“You keep thinking that,” he says and then holds his hand up to someone over my shoulder. “Hold up. I need you to look at something.” He takes a few steps so that he’s shoulder to shoulder with me. “It was definitely the kiss.”

“Hunter—”

“You’re welcome.”

Without another word, his skates clomp down the carpeted hallway toward the visiting team’s quarters, while I watch after him wondering how in the hell he just got the upper hand in this conversation when I’m the one holding all the cards in a game he doesn’t even know we’re playing.

But isn’t that us?

Well, him and me.

There is no us.

There won’t be an us.

There can’t be an us. Not even a one-night-stand us.

Hell, Hunter maneuvered me right where he wanted me to be—me answering his questions while I forget to get answers to mine.

Something is going on with him.

The agent in me wants to figure it out so I can manipulate it to my advantage—take care of the problem, negotiate the issue away, and show him just how good I am at my job.

The woman in me worries about him, because you can only push so hard, so long, without burning out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DEKKER

I GLANCE AT THE FIRST page of the weekly status sheet in my inbox and twist my lips. What do I type? What answer do I give? Haven’t approached him? He doesn’t know? I kissed him?

I want to kiss him again?

Shit.

Instead of typing anything, I close the email and don’t respond. It’s too soon for me to type anything.

CHAPTER TWELVE