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“Excellent. Here.” Catherine grabs a notepad and pencil from our work table. “Write down your height.”
“Inches or centimeters?”
“Whichever you want.”
“And what if it’s a tie?” I ask.
Catherine shrugs. “You decide. Because it’s not going to be a tie. You’re about to become the focus of hundreds of media stories, birdman.”
“Pretty sure your eggs are going to be left to incubate all alone. Boots on or off?”
“Your choice.”
I consider, look at the sole of my Doc Marten’s. Looks like an inch. Easy enough to add. But I know precisely how tall I am without boots, so that’s the number I write on the paper. I tear it from the pad and place it upside down on the table.
“I’ll take off my boots for you,” I say.
“No need. I can do subtraction.”
We face each other and she looks me up and down a few times.
“Stand straight, arms at your sides.”
I pull my heels together, inhale a full breath, and stand as straight as I can.
“Chin down. Look straight ahead.” Her tone is sharp, commanding. Entirely out of character.
For the last four weeks, working alongside Catherine, she’s never given me an order or made a demand. Her approach has always been gentle, a “Can I get your help with this?” or “When you have a minute, I’d love your thoughts on this,” as if it pains her to make use of me.
I’m surprised at how much I like having her tell me what to do with such authority.
Catherine’s focus is intense as she points her index finger through the air, down my body to my boots, then up again, stopping a few times. She appears to be doing calculations in her head, whispering numbers too quietly for me to hear.
“I’ve got it,” she says, “but I’d like to do a quick sketch of you. Spread your legs so you’re still standing comfortably and extend your arms out to the sides, level with your shoulders.”
“Seriously?”
Her look answers. I change my pose. She picks up the pad of paper and pencil and starts drawing. She’s not being quick about it. Her focus is intense and she rarely takes her eyes off my body to look at the page. And when she glances up at my face, it’s as if she’s looking through me, not at me. I will her to move closer, but she stands as still as I am. The only parts of her that move are her hand and forearm. I clear my throat to get her attention, but she ignores or doesn’t hear me.
After two, maybe three minutes of being so closely examined, my initial amusement changes to mild irritation. My raised arms are fatiguing. I relax my shoulders, but before my exhale is even finished, Catherine barks, “Arms up.”
I comply and a mild jolt of energy sparks, shooting from my throat to my groin when my mind conjures an image of Catherine tying me to a bed. Shit.
Another minute passes and she finally meets my eyes. She smiles, looking like herself again, and says, “All done. Thanks for cooperating.”
“So? How tall am I?” I ask, rolling my shoulders and neck to relax them.
“One-hundred-eighty-nine centimeters.”
CHAPTER6
Catherine
Eric laughs. “One-eighty-nine? Not one-ninety? Or one-ninety-one? You sure about that?”
He emphasizes the word “sure” with raised eyebrows. My belly does a little flip. I like it when he stares at me with this intensity. I am sure, but hesitate for a second as I picture losing this bet and what it might be like to be forced to spend forty-three nights with this man. I can’t imagine it would be terrible. In fact, I suspect it might be quite delightful.
Eric mumbles in a quiet voice but intentionally loud enough for me to hear, “Girls can’t do math as well as boys.”
