Page 87 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

“What?”

A shake of his head.

“What?”

“You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re tired.”

I blink at him. “Yeah, we all are.” We’ve been working our asses off on this shit while also trying to keep our normal businesses afloat. It’s not like I’ve been lounging in bed all day, catching up on my Zs.

Of course, when I am in bed, I’m not exactly sleeping.

I’m thinking about silky red hair and gentle blue eyes and sugar cookies and paperbacks and movies that make a good woman cry.

What about me?

Did I make her cry too?

Fuck.

I scrub my palms over my face.

“You need to sleep. Or all this”—he sweeps out a hand, indicating the disaster that’s my office—“isn’t going to mean shit.”

It has to mean something.

Because if it’s the same fucked-up shit at the end of all this…

“Fuck off,” I mutter.

“Ah, the traditional reply of men being idiots.”

I close the laptop, shove to my feet.

His mouth twitches, the bastard.

I want to punch the smirk off his face, but even older than me, I know the asshole can still kick my ass. Multiple decades of military experience and security protection details (not to mention years spent working toward taking down an international crime ring) have honed his skills.

Which is why he just calmly sits there as I sidestep his chair and do what I’ve spent most of my time doing of late (at least when I’m not sleeping)—

Pacing.

“So,” he says casually, “have you called her?”

I freeze. Open my mouth. Close it again. Then blow out a breath. “You’re not going to leave it alone, are you?”

“Nope.”

I stare up at the ceiling. “Do you know what your problem is?”

“Can’t what for you to tell me for a change.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He just shakes his head. “And you’re a stubborn fuck.” Then before I can argue (or glare at him some more) he shoves some papers at me. “Tell me your thoughts about this.”