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Out of my side vision, I see the corner of his lip tip up a little as he presses a button near the top causing the beans to grind in the clear hopper remarkably quietly.
“You didn’t like that, huh?” he says, his voice low so as not to be overheard. He takes a filter from a box, opens out the filter housing, and places it inside. “Being ordered to make tea.”
I glare up at him, realizing I’m going to need a chiropractor if this freaking tree of a man keeps standing so close to me that I have to crank my neck back each time.
I’m also realizing, much to the chagrin of my self-esteem, how hyperaware I am of his proximity to me, of the white shirt sheathing the heavy muscles that are still seared into my vision, of the charcoal-gray pants wrapped around long legs… and the hint of his erection that I saw.
I know I didn’t exactly have my wits about me that day, but I know I didn’t imagine the size of the thing. As I realized when I was alone in bed last night, the thing has imprinted itself on my brain.
Indie…
“I don’t recall Carrie ever telling me she got her MA in Business Management so that she could be your little drinks slave.”
His eyes beam though his face remains unmoving. “Carrie works in logistics. You’re not qualified for that. We’d spend longer training you than you’d spend being useful.”
“Charming,” I mutter, watching the ground beans drop into the clear filter.
“I’ve given my assistant Carrie’s job for the next week. And you’ll be doing her job.”
“Which, from what I’m gathering, consists of waddling around in tight clothes and serving you beverages as if you’re Henry the XIII.”
“Not really,” he replies smoothly. “I’m reserving these tasks specifically for you.”
My mouth falls open.
“And speaking of clothes,” he continues, eyeing me severely, “we’ll be having a word about yours… in my office before you leave.”
I glance down at my outfit. “Carrie told me to wear this. She said she does.”
“I don’t care what she does.” The hint of a growl claws its way into his voice. “You’re not wearing outfits like that around here. We’ll be discussing it later.”
“Oh, will we, now?”
“Yes. We will.” As the jug at the bottom of the machine fills three-quarters of the way with dark amber liquid, he adds, “I trust you can take it from here.”
Without thinking, my fingers reach for his arm to stop him. He halts in his tracks, looking down as I pull my hand away.
Sharp eyes flick to mine and for a second, I lose my voice before finding it somehow amidst the weight of tension so irritatingly thick it’s a miracle my brain can even conjure up words.
“If you think I’m pouring it for them as part of their sick little assistant fantasy,” I whisper, “you’ve got another thing coming.”
“I’m sure they can manage the pouring, Indigo.”
“Well, good.”
As he returns to the table, I turn back, staring as chestnut droplets splash into the well of coffee below.
Fuck, I mutter internally, realizing that my plan to act professionally has already gone a bit sideways and that you’d never think he was paying me with the amount of attitude I can’t seem to stop myself from giving him.
Maybe it’s to make up for my weekend of bleaching servitude after I juiced his clothes. I mean, I do still feel bad about that, but I did offer to pay him back for the shirt. It’s not my fault if he refuses to accept it.
I take the now-full jug of coffee over and place it onto a mat in the center of the table, sitting down and deciding to check my mouth at the gate for the duration of the meeting.
* * *
Almost an hour later, I’ve come to the realization that it’s very hard to write when there’s a man watching you intently, deciding when and where he’d like to sink his teeth into your neck.
I’m trying to concentrate on the meeting, on the potential for protests against another casino, on the senators who are amenable, the permits still needed and solutions to the numerous obstacles in their way, but it’s not easy when every time I glance in Grey’s direction, his ferocious gaze burns my skin.
