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Bit my lip again.
Rolling out my shoulders, I stand abruptly and set out on a noble quest to find the bathroom, refill my coffee, and see what kind of info I can gather about my new coworkers with face-to-face interactions.
Time to serve my inner intel pimp and make sure what I dug up online matches the real thing.
Unfortunately, the break room is empty. After filling myFuck the Patriarchymug with java and some caramel-flavored creamer, I toss the stirrer in the garbage. When I turn around, the man who’s been starring in my wet dreams stands in the doorway, broad arms crossed at his chest. Tendrils of black ink peek out from the neck of his shirt and short sleeves.
Could that top pull any tighter across his muscular chest? He should probably buy a larger size, but I’m not mad he didn’t. In fact, I’m grateful he shops in the boys’ department.
Anger and loathing radiate off him.
His eyes are normally hazel, but they have a reddish tint. Apparently, when you mix fury with hazel, the resulting shade is vampire red.
With his stiff posture and smoldery scowl, he should be on a book cover. Strike that. He’d be a better mattress cover. For my bed.
Bad Mia. Reduce hormones by 69 percent.
I should speak first and offer an apology. After all, I owe him one or five. But something stops me from doing it. I’ll analyze potential reasons for my reluctance later.
Plastering on a friendly smile, I wait for his words to match the ire on his face.
He doesn’t make me wait long.
Leaning forward, he narrows his eyes at me while clicking his jaw. “Well?”
“Well,” I parrot for some reason. My voice is softer than his, although there’s a distinctively antagonistic tone.
Make peace. Don’t make it worse, girl.
He scoffs, heaving his eyes to the roof in a showy roll. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”
My plastic smile widens while the rock in my gut grows heavier. “Good morning. Lovely to see you again.”
“No, it really isn’t.”
“It isn’t lovely to see me, or it isn’t a good morning?”
“Both.”
Being face to face with him is proving a teensy bit more painful than I expected.
In the past, I’ve gone into the field to help CIA operatives snuff out intel or convert assets to our side of the game. That often requires less than honorable tactics. While my primary role was to feed intel to the field operatives, I’ve had my share of playing dirty spy.
I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve slept with assets and marks before. Good luck finding someone at the company who hasn’t used their powers of seduction to get what they need for the job.
But no oneenjoysmanipulating innocent people.
Well, I suppose some people do. But I never did. I pushed through the discomfort because it’s what the op required. It never felt good, per se.
But it sure as fuck never felt this icky before.
I have a strange urge to take a shower. The sweat under my boobs is only partially to blame for that. Mostly, it’s because facing off with Cal makes me feel filthy.
Rolling my shoulders back and raising my chin, I try for something light. “Perhaps some coffee would help improve your mood. I could pour you a cup if you like.”
There. Professional. Cordial. Warm.
And it went over like a balloon filled with shit. One that thudded to the ground, burst open, and soiled my shoes.
