Page 120 of Nash
"Productive."
"Learn anything interesting?"
"Nothing as interesting as what you learned this morning."
I turn. He knows. Of course he knows. Frankie told him what the morning was for, which means he's been sitting in a war room meeting for three hours thinking about what Frankie was telling me. His jaw is set. His eyes track my hands.
"My hands are magical," I say. I hold them up, wiggle my fingers. "These hands. Right here. Enchanted. Supernatural. Filing a formal complaint with the universe about not being consulted."
"Your hands have always been trouble."
"My hands have always been GIFTED. There's a difference. The difference is apparently witchcraft." I step closer. One step. "You know what else these hands are good at?"
His jaw clenches. "Ruby."
"Provoking the Sergeant-at-Arms in his place of business." Another step. "Which is technically my place of business. So I have jurisdiction here. Which means—"
He takes three strides. His hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me off the shop floor, past the counter, down the short hallway, through the back room door. The door shuts behind us. Supply shelves. Ink boxes. The overhead bulb casts a harsh light on a room that smells like antiseptic and cardboard.
He presses me against the door. Both hands on my jaw, thumbs pressing just below my ears, tilting my head where he wants it. His mouth lands on mine, hard, hungry, his tongue pushing past my lips. I grip his cut with both fists and pull him closer. The sound he makes against my mouth is low, rough, andvibrates through my chest. His body pins me to the door, his hips pressing into mine, and I feel him harden against my stomach in seconds. My breath catches.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, gripping, angling my head so he can kiss me deeper. I arch into him, my fingers clawing at the leather, trying to get closer to something I can't get close enough to. His teeth catch my bottom lip and tug. My knees buckle. His thigh slots between mine, pressing up, holding me against the door with his body while his mouth takes everything it wants.
He pulls back. Two inches. His forehead against mine.
"Frankie's aggressive soup," I say. Breathless. "Is it magical? I need a definitive answer. The habanero level in last week's batch was supernatural, Nash. No human woman puts that much pepper in a broth without mystical motivation."
"The soup is soup."
"You don't know that. You haven't had the soup assessed by a qualified authority. I need peer review on the habanero situation. This is science."
He kisses me again. Shorter. Harder. The kind that ends a conversation by making the conversation impossible.
"Get back to work," he says.
"You pulled me into a back room to tell me to get back to work?"
"I pulled you into a back room because you were provoking me on the shop floor."
"I was wiggling my fingers."
"Provocatively."
"How does a person wiggle their fingers provocatively, Nash?"
"You find a way." He opens the door. Light floods in from the hallway. "Every time."
I walk past him. His hand lands on my ass as I pass. A sharp tap. The sound cracks in the narrow hallway. I stumble a half step, heat flooding my face, my thighs, my whole body.
"Nasty," I say. Low. Just for him. Just for the hallway.
His hand flexes at his side. He doesn't turn around. "Get back to work."
Frankie catches my face when I pass her station. She doesn't comment. The almost-smile says enough.
The afternoon runs. At six, we close. I clean my station. Nash holds the door. We ride. At the apartment, he grabs two beers from the fridge. Pops both caps. Sets one in front of me at the kitchen table and sits across from me.
"Frankie talked to you," he says.
