Jordan’s voice drops into the room, rough as gravel. “Are you going to take a picture, or are you going to leave?”
Perhaps taking a picture before leaving?
My mouth opens.
Nothing.
Not one word.
I am holding a framed photograph of him while staring at his naked chest.
There is no recovery from this.
“I knocked,” I blurt.
His eyebrow moves. Barely.
“I was in the shower.”
“Yes.” I nod, still clutching the frame. “I see that now.”
“You’re still checking me out.”
I snap my eyes to his face.
Mistake.
His face is worse.
He looks calm, stern, and unreadable, except his eyes are not calm. Those green-silver eyes are fixed on me with a heat that makes my knees soften and my thoughts turn into warm honey.
“I brought the contracts,” I say. “Left them on your desk.”
“On my desk?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you holding my picture?”
I look down.
The frame is still in my hands.
Wonderful.
I set it back so fast it knocks against a little bronze paperweight. The paperweight slides. I grab it. My elbow bumpsthe contracts. The contracts shift. I snatch at them too, because apparently my new career goal is desk avalanche prevention.
“Sorry. Sorry. I was just making sure everything was...” I glance around desperately. “Dust-free.”
Jordan says nothing.
Silence from him is not empty. It is a physical thing. It leans against me. It notices the pulse fluttering in my throat.
I step backward.
“I’ll go.”
“Careful.”
