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When I don’t say anything he sighs and pulls his hands out of his pockets. “Look, I just—”
“I swear to Christ, if you apologize to me one more fucking time I’ll stab you with Miranda’s letter opener.”
“I’m not here to apologize.”
That shuts me up. For a second, I don’t know what to say, which is a rare occurrence for me. “Oh.” I hook my lip ring with my teeth and give it a tug, trying to figure out what this is about. It’s a nervous habit. One that draws his attention to my mouth. The warm flush is back with a side of damp panties. I let go of my lip ring and clear my throat. “Then what do you want?”
He lifts a massive shoulder and lets it fall, his gaze coasting over me. “I just wanted to tell you that you look nice without your pack of watchdogs barking at me.”
“Nice?” I look down at myself—the tight, red dress and sky-high heels—and laugh. “I look nice?”
“You don’t like it when people tell you you’re pretty,” he tells me. “I mean, I guess I could tell you
that you look so fucking good that I’ve been doing mental gymnastics for the past two hours, trying to keep myself in check because every time I look at you, I have this overwhelming urge to drag you into the nearest supply closet so I can do very, very dirty things to you, it would probably warrant another apology,” he says, in the same tone of voice I’ve heard him use to rattle off Happy Hour drink specials. “But getting stabbed isn’t something I’m looking to do. So, yeah.” He smirks at me, lifting his hand to scratch the scar on his chin with this index finger. “You look nice.”
It takes several seconds and the fact that I’m feeling light-headed for me to realize that I’m holding my breath. I let it out slowly while he just stands there and looks at me, waiting for me to do or say something. Scream fire! Kick him in the balls. Make good on my threat and stab him.
“Is that it?” I say, reaching for the purse I tossed onto Miranda’s desk when I walked in.
“You’re here with Ryan.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer him.
“You made sure Logan wasn’t available.”
He doesn’t even try to deny it.
“You can’t keep doing this, you know?”
“Doing what?” He sounds angry. Defensive. He’s never been one to admit when he’s wrong. It’s one of the few things we have in common.
“Playing with me, Declan.” Saying it out loud is like cutting myself open, exposing my insides. “You can’t keep playing with me.”
When I say it, his anger evaporates. “I’m not—” He straightens himself off the door, shaking his head. “That’s not what—”
“Is that it?” I gesture toward the door he’s still blocking. “Can I leave?”
“Yeah.” He nods at me. “That’s it,” he says, but that’s not it. I can tell it’s not, just by the way he’s looking at me. But he unlocks the door. He opens it and lets me go.