Page 30 of His Little Angel

“Yes,” I say, pouring the hot water. “I asked if you wanted coffee.”

She hesitates, tripping over her words like a toddler. “Um… since it’s your last day… yes, sure. I’d like to try the coffee Mr. Morelli refuses to drink unless you make it.”

If hatred were a sport, she’d be my Olympic rival.

“Fine.” I grind out the word and pour her a cup—black, with a single sugar cube.

I slide the mug toward her, and we sip. Coffee warms my soul, but she looks like she just tasted disappointment.

“This is… normal,” she says, brows furrowing. “It tastes like every other coffee here.”

“Sorry, Lindsay. My barista magic must’ve run off with the oil tycoon.”

She blanches, fake-laughs, then switches topics like her life depends on it. “So why does Mr. Morelli only take it from you? It’s just coffee.”

I shrug. “Maybe he enjoys making my life hell. Who knows?”

And I’m done.

“If you excuse me,” I add, picking up his cup, “I have to bring this to him.”

She practically bolts from the room. I down my own coffee, grab his, and head to his floor.

Veronica is just about to bring it herself, but the second she sees me, her entire body relaxes.

“Good morning, Veronica. I got it.”

“Morning, Mila. Thank God. Today’s already a mess.”

She continues typing, and I stare at the door behind her.

His office.

I knock once, open the door, and step inside. He’s standing behind his desk instead of sitting… restless today. His eyes drag down my outfit, and something in his jaw cracks.

I ignore the electric current that moves from my head to my toes at the hunger in his eyes.

I set the mug on his desk. “Your coffee.”

I move to the chair in front of his desk, sit, cross my legs, and pull my skirt down so it doesn’t show more skin than necessary.

“About last night—” He begins.

“About today,” I cut in, lifting my notebook and flipping it open. “I completely taught Veronica the logging program. She picked it up faster than I expected.”

His brow twitches.

“About. Last. Night.” Each word squeezed through his teeth.

I pretend not to hear him, flipping a page.

“These documents—” I hold them up, hands perfectly calm even though my heart hammers against my ribs, “—have all the numbers she’ll need if the program ever crashes. IT leads, the external tech contractor, and a few troubleshooting steps for minor errors—”

His fist slams the desk hard enough to make the mug jump.

“Who was the man last night? Why were you bringing him into your apartment?”

I keep my eyes on the papers, even though the lines blur. Is it wrong that my pulse spikes in a way that isn’t fear? That something in me… likes the way his voice sounds when he’s losing it over me?