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Pulling my focus up to her, she’s smiling with her teeth, but it’s one of those I fucked up grins. “Sorry, that kinda hurt.”
“You’re fine.” I straighten my aching spine in my stool. “Need a break?”
“Could I? I promise I won’t mess up your work.”
“Yeah.” I slowly rise, welcoming the movement and blood flow in my legs. “Would you like a water?”
“Please.” Pivoting for the mini fridge, she stops me again. “How old?”
And this is why I don’t answer personal questions.
Everyone wants to start small talk. They want a glimpse into your life so they can find something relatable to keep the conversation going.
All things I don’t want to do.
All pieces of dialogue I’d rather not divulge in, think about, or even entertain.
“She’s dead.”
That seems to shut the blonde up for half a second.
“Oh.” I don’t even look at her face. Don’t bother to listen to her pass along her condolences either because I’m not looking for them.
My unborn daughter died in a car accident with her mother, end of story. The bracelet my client was just referring to was something my ex made me with lettered beads before I found out she was fucking my best friend, Conrad.
I lost her, the baby, and my buddy all in one night.
Mind you, Conrad is still alive. He came clean at the funeral, spoke about how I should know, he’s sorry, it wasn’t supposed to go down like that, and—my favorite one of them all—I’m not sure if the baby is mine or not.
That was three years ago.
And all I’ve been concentrating on is my business and moving on from the grief that nearly swallowed me whole.
Grabbing one of the water bottles from the small fridge, I hand it over to my client before the door to the room flies open, hitting the wall with a loud thud and revealing my very flush receptionist/social media chick.
“I need you.”
It’s not that she needs me that causes a problem. It’s the way she says it.
This deep, husky, almost out-of-breath tone that actually gives me pause and gives a slight rise to my cock.
It’s fucking stupid, really. This girl is pushing eighteen or something.
She dresses like it.
High-waisted shorts that outline her hips and thighs. She could eat more, but that’s neither here nor there. But her tits…she’s got great fucking tits.
And they were soaked when I met and hired her in the parking lot of Rapture Ink.
“I’m with a customer,” I ground out through my teeth, ignoring whatever little teenage crisis she might be going through. Then wave her away like the little annoyance she’s beginning to be. “Get lost, Oaklee.”
“It’s Olive.”
I know her damn name.
And I know I should’ve never hired her. Knew it from the day I did, when she looked like a drowned puppy. When those lucid blue eyes stared up at me with hope and desperation.
I know nothing about her other than the fact that she begged.
