Poppy
I felt his stare of blatant disapproval. Like darts into a bullseye. I didn’t need to look at his face to know what he was thinking. He was giving off silent, but very violent vibes. I jumped up and made a move for the pigeon, but it was fast and trotted across the room. It disappeared under the desk.
“Sorry,” I said, getting down on all fours and scuttling after it.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I heard Ryan say as I crawled after the bird. “Sorry about this,” he said to the others, clearly embarrassed.
“Come here, birdy, birdy, birdy.” I reached out and tried to grab him, but he made a run for it. It was as if he was doing this on purpose, enjoying the commotion he was causing. I bumped into a few legs and feet as I shuffled under the desk and popped out on the other side. I made another mad grab for him, but the feathery little bastard hopped up on a chair and then, to my horror, onto the boardroom table.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I threw myself at the table and lost my footing as I went. And then suddenly, unexpectedly . . .I was gliding. Like a figure-skater across the smooth ice, I slid across the very polished boardroom table. The pigeon was in my sights, I was almost there, but then the momentum from the polished surface was lost and I stopped with a long, loudsqueeeeek. The pigeon turned and looked at me indignantly. It let out a long, loud coo and then . . .
“Shit,” I hissed under my breath as I watched in jaw-dropping horror.
As if it were happening in slow motion, the moist splatter of whiteness shot out of its bottom and landed on the table with a loud splat!
I was so getting fired for this.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Poppy
After wiping the mess off the table, I exited with my pigeon. “And this is the thanks I get for saving your life,” I said as I put him inside his box and closed the lid. I sat at my desk and chewed the end of my pen, wondering how he was going to fire me? I hoped it would be quick, and I hoped I wouldn’t cry. And sure enough, when the meeting was over, and everyone had left, I was summoned to his office. I walked in and stood waiting for him to speak.
“Sit.” He didn’t look up at me.
“I’m sorry about the pigeon,” I blurted out.
“You should be.” He finally looked up at me. “That bird better not come back to this office tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I was confused.
“Yes. Tomorrow. Do you have a problem with that, Miss Granger?” He sat back in his chair and folded his arms; his shirt tugged against his chest. Unbeknownst to him, one of his buttons had popped open and,oh my God, was that a tattoo on his chest? Suddenly a whole bunch of “other” feelings flooded me. This man was so damn hot it was criminal. Honestly, someone should arrest him for looking like that and throw the key away. I mean, I knew he was hot,but really, could he get any better looking? But he did. And every time I looked at him I noticed something else. Something new. That small dimple in his cheek, that freckle below his left eye, that small scar he had on the back of his hand.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what?” I asked, caught somewhere between this reality and another one where he was busy unbuttoning his other buttons and showing me what his tattoo looked like.
“Miss Granger,” he snapped, and I jumped, straight back into this reality. The one where he was glaring angrily at me and I was frightened of him.
“What?” I asked nervously.
“Do you have a problem with tomorrow?” he asked. His voice slow, firm and deliberate.
“No! No problem with that, and no pigeon. I promise,” I quickly stammered.
“By the way,” he pointed at my face, “You have a . . . a . . . thing, there.”
“Huh?” I looked around.What was he pointing at?
“Your mouth. The corner.” He wagged his finger about. “And your face.”
I raised my hand to my mouth and touched it.
“Other side,” he said, waving his hand at me some more.
I moved my fingers across my lips.
He sighed. “The corner, Miss Granger. The corner.”
