Page 77 of Honor

I watch her pour a full glass before she raises it to her lips. The expression on her face says it all as she gets her first taste.

“Spit it out,” I suggest, pointing toward the sink near her.

She ignores my advice and swallows. “I never spit out.”

She’s talking about the iced tea, but dammit if my brain can process that. All I can think about is the load I’m going to have to shoot out in the shower later while I imagine her on her knees in front of me, taking it all down her throat.

“You never spit out,” I repeat in a low tone.

Her gaze catches mine, and I see the moment she realizes how it sounded.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she whispers. “Although I don’t spit that out either.”

I didn’t need to know that, and yet, at the same time, I’ll never be able to forget it.

She barks out a nervous laugh. “I need to shut up. I meant that I generally don’t spit anything out.”

She can keep digging this hole as deep as she wants because I’m not going anywhere.

That’s a lie. I take a step closer to where she’s standing.

She doesn’t retreat. She holds her ground with her gaze locked on me. That’s fair because I can’t take my eyes off of her.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks. “Is it salad dressing?”

Just as her hand is about to leap to her lips, I beat her to it. My index finger lands on her chin.

I tilt it up slightly. “Why would you think that?”

Her breath hitches. “You had that same look on your face the day I had ketchup and mustard on my face.”

I cup her chin between my finger and thumb. “What look is that, Evangeline?”

She studies me carefully. “It’s a mix of confusion and frustration, I think.”

It’s far from that. It’s wonder mixed with something bordering on infatuation.

“You think,” I repeat those two words. “Why would you think I’d be confused and frustrated?”

She swallows hard. “I’m not going to answer that. I want to keep my job.”

Despite my best efforts, I laugh. “This is a safe space. You have my word that whatever happens here won’t be held against you in the office.”

Her hand darts out in front of her. “Shake on it.”

Amused that she thinks we need to take that step, I do it only because it means I can touch her briefly with my other hand.

I do just that by taking her hand and holding it so she can’t let go.

She raises her chin as if she’s seeking an escape from my touch, but I don’t give her that. Instead, I ask her the question a second time, hoping she’ll answer. “Why would you think I’d be confused and frustrated with you?”

Her bottom lip quivers. It’s not quite a tremble, but it’s a sign that she’s feeling vulnerable. Still, I press because I like her like this, slightly exposed and off guard. “Tell me, Evie.”

“It’s not a secret.” She tries to laugh, but the sound is too soft, too broken, and too forced to hold any glee. “You don’t like me very much.”

I stare at her, trying to process those words as I say them over and over again in my mind.

“I can tell that I annoy you,” she whispers. “I know you always send me on those errand runs to get me out of the office.”

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