Page 41 of Look, Don't Touch

I want more than I’m willing to admit to even myself. Nothing much, really. Just…the sight of him. Not him exactly. I want a good look at his demons. Demons that rival mine.

Nothing bad will happen. Nothing can happen. It’s just coffee.

Astor’s voice rings in my head, telling me to go on a date. She certainly didn’t mean with a client. And this is not a date.

“Please?” he adds.

The silk is soft against my fingers. I take my time unfitting the knot, letting him adjust to the impending vulnerability. Maybe I’m giving myself time too. Then it’s off.

I blink several times, adjusting to the light.

“Hello, Mr. Judge.”

He gives a slight bow of his head.

Whatever breath I’d managed to gather between the shock of him demanding I accompany him to coffee and demanding I remove the blindfold evaporates once more. My brain goes a little fuzzy. The universe skitters. It’s like I’m drunk. Intoxicated by the mere sight of him. No, not just the sight of him, but the presence he emanates. It has nothing to do with his bespoke suit, the sleek timepiece peeking out from beneath his cuffs, nor his fancy shoes—approximately size fourteen.

The pictures I saw of him were great. They do nothing to pay respect to the nuance of the man in front of me.

His dark eyes are as haunting as they are haunted. They look like two dark pools beckoning their prey to slip beneath the surface…never to be seen again. His skin is smooth and white with no hint of a tan. Yet not as ghostly pale as mine. Its unblemished surface lends severity to the width and cut of his jaw. His hair is slicked in a gentleman's cut, though a little long. Its slight waves hint at an unruly nature, and the color is hard to discern, much like the man. It appears dark offhand, but there are glimpses of honey-brown and the barest flecks of auburn.

“Shall we?” He stands, and I’m struck by his sheer size. His shoulders and long legs fit so neatly into his suit, it almost camouflages his potential for being the apex predator among apex predators.

I cross my arms over my chest, sit back in my seat, and look directly into his entrancing eyes. “Ask me properly.”

“Come with me for coffee.”

My head shakes. “A demand, not a request.”

His chest fills with air and he releases it through his wide mouth. I’m tickled to finally see the dragon breathe. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “It would be my honor to take you for coffee.”

“Once again, not a request.” I tilt my head. “If you want me to go, ask me. If you don’t, don’t.”

His jaw tilts toward the sky, but his eyes remain focused on me. “Will you please join me for a cup of coffee?”

“Yes.” I hop from my chair, grab my phone from my desk drawer, and walk toward him. To his credit, he doesn’t retreat. He watches me with a slightly raised brow, while I toss my phone onto his now empty seat and peel my leather jacket off. I try my best not to look at him. Instead, I hitch my jaw toward the rack by the exit door. “Grab my coat, please?”

When he moves away, I’m allowed to study his frame without his eyes on me. I don’t take it. Nope, I drape my leather across the back of his seat, grab my phone, and head toward the door. The last thing I need is to indulge in the mysterious beauty of my patient.

I expect him to try to hand the hefty camel trench coat over. Per usual, he’s several chess moves ahead of me. He turns and holds it open as though he’d known it was a test.

“Thank you.” I slip my arm inside, stuff my phone into a pocket, and then?—

His breath catches.

I still.

“On a scale from one to ten, how’s your anxiety?” I breathe the question without moving.

“Zero,” he practically growls.

“Then what?—”

“Crows.” His interruption is baffling.

For a moment, I wonder if he has a fear of crows or if they’re threatening to break into my office via the windows and I’ve been so focused on him that I haven’t heard the pecking. A la Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.

“You have tattoos on your back.” His statement is an accusation.

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