Page 12 of Nash
My pulse is in my throat. My skin is hot where his hand was on my arm.
"What are you doing?" His voice is low.
"Working. On a client. Which is my job."
"Ruby."
"Listen, this is a very confusing message. You've got me pinned in a hallway with one hand on the wall and the jaw of a man who's about to recite Bible verses, but I'm getting mixed signals. Is this a reprimand or are we about to have a conversation about my Christmas bonus?"
His jaw clenches harder. His eyes drop to my mouth. Stay there. Come back up.
"You're testing me."
"I'm doing my job."
"You had your hand on his arm for forty-five seconds."
"I was placing a stencil."
"You were making a point."
My breath catches. The heat coming off his body fills the space between us. Sandalwood. Leather. Warm skin. His hand is flat against the wall next to my head, his thumb an inch from my hair.
"Stop," he says. Quieter. "You don't need to do that."
"Do what?"
"Use him to get a reaction out of me." His eyes hold mine. "You already have one."
My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it. He pushes off the wall. Steps back. My shoulders drop an inch off the wall behind me.
"Finish the consult," he says. "I'll be at the door."
He walks back to the front. I stay against the wall for three seconds with my hand on my chest and my face on fire. Which is exactly the amount of time it takes for my brain to short-circuit and reboot into 'defensive sarcasm' mode.Welcome back, asshole.
Around two, I finish the consultation with Marco. I wipe down my station and keep my eyes on the disinfectant bottle. It's safer than the alternative.
I look at the wall.
He's running his sweep. Shop front. Window. Door. Me. Shop front. Me. Shop front. Me. It's like a fucked-up version of Simon Says where the only command is 'exist provocatively.'
On my way to the back counter, I take the narrow path on purpose. My shoulder catches the edge of his cut and his whole body goes still, a controlled freeze that doesn't move a single visible muscle.
"You know," I say over my shoulder, pouring coffee I absolutely do not need, "for a man who's supposed to be watching the street, you're doing a lot of watching the shop."
"Street's clear."
"Mm-hmm."
I turn around with the mug in my hand. He's exactly where he was. I'm the one who turned around and forgot we only had four feet to begin with.
"Do you ever blink?" I lift the mug. "Genuine question. I've been monitoring."
His mouth twitches. The corner, barely.
"Oh-ho." I point at him. "That was almost something. I saw it. I'm counting it."
"Counting what?"
