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I round the car more slowly, watching her with a smile. Her hips sway back and forth as she glides away. My pants tighten as I stare unabashedly at her. This woman is a work of art, even from behind.
Nardi stops suddenly and starts patting around her jeans. When she spins around and looks accusingly at me, I dangle the keys from my ring finger.
She stomps back over to me and tries to grab the keys out of my grip. At her first swipe, I move in the opposite direction. The second time, I switch the keys to my left hand. The third time, I lift the keys high above my head like it’s a mistletoe.
Nardi hops, arms outstretched. Her gaze is fastened determinedly on the car keys, so she doesn’t see my hand moving to snake around her waist. Gravity drags her back down and, at the same time, I drag her against my chest, being careful not to smash her wrist in the process.
Her eyelashes flutter and she goes still, her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’. Inches away from her face, I see the silky smooth texture of her brown skin and thick eyelashes. Nardi is morethan her pretty face and her sweet little body, but I definitely won’t mind spending the last of my life staring at her.
“I wish I could go upstairs with you now,” I say. “But there’s something at work I’ve got to take care of.”
“U-upstairs?” She stammers, blinking rapidly. “Who said I’d invite you upstairs?”
“Wait for me tonight,” I say in a low voice.
Her eyes bug and I can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to the tip of her nose.
Nardi gasps.
With a smirk, I hand her the breakfast I prepared and the keys. “Later, princess.”
I’m halfway to my office when I hear Nardi sputter, “Ronan Cullen, if you think for one second…!”
The rest of her words are lost as I laughingly push the entrance to my office open and let the door shut behind me.
After meeting with our lawyers and the core team made up of myself, Asad and Dr. Young, we decide to fight fire with fire and threaten a lawsuit of our own.
I need to swing by Sullivan’s office to update him on all that’s been going on and also to get his advice.
But first, there’s someone else I need to speak to.
Darrel Hastings’ neuropsychology center is not at all what I pictured. The driver lets me off in front of an unassuming townhome with a simple sign on the front.
Inside, the quiet, vintage theme continues with wooden flooring, intricately carved wooden pillars and warm, sconce lights.
An older woman with the name tag ‘Donna’ attached to the top of her nursing uniform greets me when I enter.
“You must be,” she checks her computer, “Ronan Cullen.”
“I am.”
She smiles. “Darrel told me to clear his schedule when you called. You must be a friend.”
I start to correct her. Then I change my mind. “Yes.”
Donna says nothing more as she leads me down three short stairs and into a hallway with several doors. One of the signs on the doors read ‘LAB ROOM’ and I’m immensely curious to see what machines are in there.
Unfortunately, we keep going until we get to a door with no markings at all.
Donna opens the door for me. “Right in there.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want coffee, tea, something to eat?”
I grimace at the thought of Donna touching these door handles—that probably hundreds of unwashed hands have touched—and then going to fix my coffee.
“No thank you,” I say.