Page 37 of Darling Venom
The woman opened her eyes slowly. Her hazel pupils found my green ones.
“What the hell?” Her brows shot skyward, body jolting upright.
Tate stepped aside, fully clothed. He didn’t look like he’d just had sex. His cheeks weren’t flushed, his clothes not rumpled.
He looked like he could step into an operating theater and perform an open-heart surgery with steady hands. She, on the other hand, looked like she’d just gotten back from a weekend-long orgy and had forgotten to shower.
Tate lean
ed against his desk, sliding his fists into his front pockets as he crossed his ankles.
“Can I help you?” He raised an eyebrow, bone-chillingly nonchalant.
There was no point in telling myself I was okay anymore. I was one-hundred percent about to blow a gasket. I opened my mouth to yell at him until I lost my voice when the receptionist stormed into the room.
She pushed me aside as if I were racing in his direction with a weapon. “Dr. Marchetti, I’m so sorry. She said she wouldn’t knock on your door. She gave me her word!”
“I didn’t break my word.” I glowered at her, crossing my arms over my chest. “I walked right in. There was no knocking involved.”
Shockingly, it made him chuckle. A deep chuckle I could feel in my stomach.
I wanted to kill this guy.
“You asked if you can help.” I turned back to him. “You can.”
He threw me a half-moon smile of the Kellan variety. I was drowning in nostalgia. It was hard to breathe.
“Ever heard of sarcasm?” he spoke around that easy grin.
“Yeah. It’s the lowest form of wit.”
That awarded me another amused chuckle.
“Watching two strangers fucking is the lowest form of etiquette. I’ll take cheap wit over bad manners every day of the week.”
Yup. He’s just as horrible as Kellan said he was.
I ignored his jab. “I’m here on behalf of my boss, Reagan Rothschild. She wants to schedule an appointment for today, but can’t seem to reach you.”
And your receptionist is as cooperative as a suicide bomber.
The blonde woman behind him, who was currently arranging her designer dress in place, huffed. “Are you for real?”
I shot her a leveled look. “Totally real. Are you?”
I might or might not have been referring to her breasts.
“I’m calling security.” The receptionist stomped her heel, but she still looked at Tate for confirmation.
He cocked his head sideways, assessing me like I was a delivery box with no return address. Suspicious in a thrilling way. “Don’t. She amuses me.”
Which, in addition to the used condom visible through the metal basket, told me everything I needed to know. That he didn’t give a shit about whether he maintained a professional appearance.
Reagan had authors like that. Too talented to care about manners.
I bared my teeth. “I’m not a circus monkey.”
“No.” He drummed his long fingers over his desk. “They are trained. You are not.”
