Page 22 of Sin Bin

I mimic his stance, dropping my palms to the desk and leveraging my weight to a standing position. I lean forward, too, until we’re in the same breathing space, until we’re so close that if I wanted to, if Idared, one more inch would land my mouthonhis.

DoIdare?

Do I evenwantto?

My eyes drop to his mouth, and for one idiotic second, I wonder if he tastes the same, like the mint-flavored Tic Tacs he used to snack on throughout the day. Can a person change so drastically in a year? I doubt it, but you never really know. Hell, maybeI’mthe one who tastes different, like a juxtaposing cocktail of bitterness and optimism. The pour of each depends on the day of the week and the hour oftheday.

When I’m sprawled out on my makeshift bed at my dad’s house, thinking of my old job and the vacations I used to splurge on without second thought, bitternesswinsout.

Always.

It’s not something I particularly like about the new me. I don’t like itatall.

“Zoe.”

He says my name like he can’t imaginenotdoing so, like he did in that laundry room, right before he pushed me up against the door and set my body on fire. My eyes flutter shut, and I inhale so deeply that I can hear its shuddery crackle in the silence of myoffice.

“Zoe.”

I’m not ready to look at himyet. “What?”

“I’ll do this interview on onecondition.”

“What’s thecondition?”

His mint-scented breath wafts over my face. “You have to look at mefirst.”

My eyes crack open, and he’s right there. Big. Imposing. His dark eyes are centered on my mouth, and I’ve got half a mind to ask him if what he wants is a panty-wetting kiss. I wonder if he would say yes. Instead, I murmur, “Conditioncompleted.”

His head shakes a little, and his dark hair boyishly sweeps over his forehead. My hand itches to push the strands back, but that’s my lust talking, and so I close the door on those crazythoughts.

“No,” he says, “That wasn’t mycondition.”

“You can’t up it to two conditions onawhim.”

The papers under his palms slip as he leans back, away from me, away from the unspoken desire to throw everything to the floor and do it on my pristine,whitedesk.

Of the two of us, he’s probably the only one thinkingstraight.

Personally, I blame my hormones. The time of the month just came and went, and we all know howthatgoes.

“Here’s my condition.” He steps around his vacated chair to the back, so that there is ample space between us. Maybe he needs it just as much as I do. “I’ll do the interview withFame, but you’ve got to come with me. I’m assuming it’s not just aphonegig?”

My heart stills, and suddenly it’s hard to find air. “Um, excuse me,” I wheeze out, clutching my chest like it might give out and fail me. “Did you just suggest that I comewithyou? To New York City?Absolutelynot.”

He stares me down over the crooked ridge of his nose, broken from countless skirmishes in the rink, and I resist the urge to fidget. The shiner on his cheek from the other day is nearly gone now, too. “You did it when you worked for me inDetroit.”

“Yes, well, back then . . . ” There’s no good excuse here. I used to attend big interviews with him. Largely I did it because my old firm made it a requirement, but the other part of me, the part of me that viewed Andre as a friend and not just as a client, wanted to ensure that everything went smoothly for him from start tofinish.

I don’t believe that Golden Lights Media has the same protocol, or, at least, it’s not mentioned in the training manual. Also, Andre and I are no longerfriends.

Which means that this whole “go with me” thing is nullandvoid.

Striving to effuse some hardness into my voice, I say, “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be able toswingthat.”

Apparently, that’s not going to fly with this pro-hockey player. He points at me with his index finger. “You have one client, Zo”—that finger swivels until it’s aimed at himself—“me. The way I’m looking at this, you don’t have a viable excuse to get out of this,unless. . .”

Breaking off, he gives me a considering look. It’s a look that I can’t even begin to interpret, but when he makes a move to tug on his left earlobe, I peel back and shove a hand up. Oh, this is not good. The left earlobe thing is histell—always was, and apparentlystillis.

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