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His expression turned as hard as flint. “I’m fine,” he bit out before turning away to fetch the basketball. “Let’s get back to the game.”
Oh, hell, no. I wasn’t playing against him any more during this session, not with the savage mood he was in. He’d been temperamental and aggressive since he’d shown up for our hour together. I should probably count myself lucky that a sore nose was all the damage I had sustained.
Something was eating him up from the inside, and he’d been trying to release it through his playing. But if that was honestly his intent, then he had the wrong kind of sparring partner. Because I was officially out.
“How about we sit?” I offered, motioning toward our bags and water bottles lying in a heap on the floor to the side.
He glanced at our things, then turned his gaze back to me. “I’m being too intense, aren’t I?”
I held my fingers up, measuring them half an inch apart. “Just a tad.”
“Damn.” He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, his hands on his hips. Finally, he said, “Yeah. We should probably move to the talking portion.”
After we settled onto the floor and sat cross-legged, facing each other, I cleared my throat uneasily. “Do you, uh, do you want to talk about it?”
He sniffed out an amused smile. “This is your sixty minutes, El. Not mine.”
“I don’t mind,” I told him quickly. “And besides, I feel fine today. After switching bosses, I’ve had absolutely no problems, no worries, and no stresses this week. So honestly, I’d rather help you.”
Lifting his brows, he said, “Switching bosses?”
“Oh, right,” I blurted in surprise and bumped the palm of my hand against my forehead. “It was just last Saturday ago, right after our meeting, that everything happened. I haven’t updated you, have I?”
“No.” He shook his head, frowning at me. “No, you haven’t. What happened last Saturday?”
Waving a hand, I tried to tell him, “It’s not that big of a deal. I’d rather hear about what’s wrong with—”
“El,” he cut in sternly. I stopped talking and watched him close his eyes as if trying to work through something before he shook his head and lifted his hand. “Please let me do my job here. Just tell me what happened to you last Saturday.”
I blinked at him, wondering what in the world was wrong. He was not acting like Parker at all. This was growing worrisome. But I said, “Okay,” anyway, hoping maybe a little distraction would help get his mind off whatever was torturing him. “So my new boss, Mr. D, made a move on me, and I throat-punched him—in front of Twelve—which got me switched over to working for someone else in the company entirely. We’ll call her Ms. B.”
Parker blinked twice in quick succession and then shook his head again, like one of those wake-up shakes.
Finally, he answered, “Yeah, I definitely drank too much last night because there’s no way you said what it sounded like you just said.”
With a heaving sigh, I sent him a cringe. “Oh, you heard me right.” And I proceeded to tell him all the details. Then I ended it with, “It might’ve been the luckiest thing that happened to me, though. I actually love working for Ms. B. She’s challenging and tough, and it’s so freaking rewarding to surprise her with how well I do a job. She gets this pinched wrinkle between her eyes like she’s annoyed that she can’t complain about anything I did wrong. Then she nods stiffly, lifts her chin regally, and says, ‘very good,’ before going on as if I didn’t just blow her away with my mad administrative assisting skills.”
It seriously made my day every time that happened.
But Parker seemed to be stuck on two very different details. “Did you really punch that ass in the throat? Holy shit, El. That is amazing. And you say you have no defensive abilities at all.”
I flushed. “I didn't mean to catch him in the throat. I just have really bad aim. And I didn’t intend to strike out at all. I’m honestly not sure where that came from.”
“Well, it’s impressive wherever it came from. And then you actually started to open up to Twelve, too.” Blowing out a low, admiring whistle, he sat back and eyed me with appreciation. “I’m proud of you. That took a lot of trust and faith on your part to tell him as much as you did. It’s serious progress. Damn...” Wiping his hands over his face, he shook his head. “I’m wishing I had some of your bravery right now.”
So much misery washed across his features that my heart cracked in sympathy. Tilting my head, I murmured, “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. I hate seeing you this wrecked.”
“Yeah, well…” With an it-is-what-it-is flick of his hand, he began to pick at a loose string on the hem of his sock. “I deserve exactly how much I’m suffering right now, so don’t feel too bad for me. I messed up pretty bad.”
He had that depressed, lovesick expression on his face, so I felt confident in guessing, “Something happened with Bea?”
He looked up, surprise and guilt layering on top of the anguish in his features. “That obvious, huh?”
I shrugged. “Well…” Yeah.
He hissed out a breath and ripped off his hat to run a harassed hand through his thick, dark hair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just keep blurting out this shit lately that I don’t want to say to her, and—Jesus—it’s going to end up making me lose her. I just know it is.”
“What kinds of things have you been saying to her?” I blinked at him, utterly boggled because I totally could not picture the man in front of me verbally destroying or talking down to anyone, let alone the girlfriend he so unabashedly adored.
