Page 10

NINE

Joey

My mouth drops open.

Because…

Had he just said that?

Seriously. Had he just said that?

My mind is spinning so quickly I can barely keep my feet—one second I’m shriveling up from embarrassment, another I’m pissed that he’s being pushy as fuck and stepping over every boundary we’ve erected in our relationship. The next I’m confused because are we boss and employee or are we—what I thought we were—co-workers who are friendly (even if I lust after him)? Or are we something completely different—as in a man and a woman who are dancing around each other because we have mutual attraction?

The last one doesn’t make sense.

Because Damon doesn’t do messy.

Doesn’t do connection.

Doesn’t do women.

Or, at least, he doesn’t do anything more than scratching an itch and then moving right the fuck on.

How do I know this?

I’ve seen the women making their way up to his hotel room on road trips…and then making their way right back down a couple of hours later.

Same as I’ve seen the women meet him at the arena…and then be dropped back off at their cars to drive themselves home.

Is it pathetic how much I know about this man’s habits? Yes.

Did I work late in the bar or late at the arena to feed that sick pit inside me that was desperate for any and all knowledge of this man? Also… yes.

And does any of that knowledge I’ve gained over the last years—but especially over the last months—help me make sense of what the fuck is going on here?

Nope. Absolutely fucking not.

We’ve eaten together enough that he knows my favorite places, my favorite foods from those places, but this isn’t about work.

I don’t know what it’s about. A lie, but one I’m clinging to because?—

We’ll see about fixing that.

His voice from last night rolls through me, and even though it was soft and gentle, it struck even deeper than the innuendo that’s cast me mute in this moment.

Which is why I clamp my mouth shut, brush by him to yank open the cabinet door, and reach in to grab some plates and bowls.

He’s here.

He’s male, which means he’s stubborn.

I need to ride this out before he’ll leave—and I know he’ll leave.

The plus is that I get my favorite food while I’m stuck on this ride I never wanted to get on in the first place?—

Liar .

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, shove that thought down, tucking it right next to the pulsing, throbbing need I’ve buried for too long. It’s covered with heavy sheets of steel—the reminders that this can’t be, that he’s not capable of giving me what I need, what I want…even if it could be.

And the heaviest sheet of all is that a man like Damon would never, fucking never want to give me that.

The clangs of those thick sheets of metal slamming home have my lids peeling back.

Suitably shored up, defenses securely in place, I snag two plates, two bowls, and bring them over to the bags of Dragon Delight.

Then I grab silverware, forks and spoons for us, a ladle for the soup, big spoons I use specifically to serve up heaping portions of Dragon Delight—because there’s no skimping when it comes to good food and there’s definitely no skimping when it comes to wonton soup and lo mein and fried rice with chunks of perfectly sweet pork in it.

Only, I no sooner set that silverware down before Damon is moving close again. Near enough I can feel the heat from his body, but not so close that he’s touching me. That buried longing in me pulses, desperate for his touch, threatening to slip free of the steel shielding. Especially when he says, “You really going to let me get away with saying that shit, Red?”

My heart starts beating faster, but I just lift my chin and glare at him. “You’re here for reasons only known to you, and you’re a stubborn fuck, so I know I don’t have any hope of getting you to leave before you’ve accomplished what you came here to accomplish?—”

His mouth quirks.

But I keep talking.

“In the meantime,” I mutter, opening the container of soup and ladling some into my bowl—and doing it knowing I’m being selfish by taking the majority of the wontons, “I’m going to eat my food, drink my wine, and deal with it until you get it in your head to leave again.”

Silence.

For long enough that I can’t take it.

I look up from the mound of rice I’ve scooped onto my plate in the meantime.

He’s studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s never encountered before.

Then he’s solving it and by doing so, he sends terror through me.

Because what Hiller did to me was traumatic. It haunted my nightmares and fucked up my life for months.

But he was far from the first person to hurt me—and he definitely didn’t dole out the biggest wounds.

In fact, Hiller’s violation was almost child’s play when it comes to the rest of my life.

Especially my younger years.

“Who else left you, Red?” he asks, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts.

I open my mouth to lie, but then he lifts a hand, and I can’t help it, I flinch away from the contact.

He sees that flinch—how could he not when it’s right in front of him?—and moves even more slowly. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps going, oh so slowly, until he’s brushing the backs of his knuckles over my cheek. “Who else hurt you?”

Everything seizes in me again.

And so quickly, so fiercely that tears clog up in my throat and my eyes burn, the past swells up and?—

No.

I’m not crying again.

Not over this shit.

I lift my chin, step away from his touch, and blatantly lie, “No one.”

He tilts his head to the side and I brace, resist the urge to retreat.

I have to hold my ground. I have to steel myself in concrete and barbed wire and prepare for the impact of whatever bomb this man is going to drop on me.

Because it’s all I know.

“No one hurt you,” he says softly.

“Exactly.” I drop the spoon back into the rice then reach for my bowl, my plate. “No one.” Then I take advantage of his quiet to say, “Well, since you’re here, we should talk about the team?—”

“Nope.”

I blink, surprise sliding through me.

Because if there’s anything that Damon and I are comfortable with, it’s talking about the team.

It’s the safe spot.

It’s where I’m most secure. Where the carefully constructed distance around him stays intact.

It’s—

“No,” he says as he starts loading up his plate, “we’re not going to talk about the team.”

“Um…” I blink again. “We’re not?”

“Nope,” he repeats, snagging my plate from my hand and moving over to the island, parking his ass on a stool, and setting my plate down at the spot next to him. “We’re going to eat, and we’re going to talk, and you’re just going to deal, Red.”