Page 8 of Single Mom's Secret Diary
“You did,” Ezra says quietly. Confidently. And I wish I could unravel what he’s thinking. I probably don’t want to know.
Calmer now in my element, I fold my hands demurely in my lap. “Shall I do another?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.” Ezra holds out his hand as though he expects to help me from my stool.
I slip to my feet without touching him. As far behind me as I’ve put him these last ten years, I don’t want to indulge in the feel of his skin against mine again. Shaking his hand had been enough of a shock—an unwelcome jolt to my system that made my nerves much harder to control.
I won’t show him any weakness. “Is there anything else you would like to show me before I see where I will be working? I was told I would have an office.”
“Wait,” Wyatt says. “How did you know every single ingredient in there? Down to the brand of oil I used to give it its shine.”
I regard him for a long minute. He doesn’t balk or turn away, facing the force of my stare as though it doesn’t affect him at all. I rather like that. Abrupt and honest I can deal with.
Smooth operators like his boss, using the nice guy façade to get what he wants, are much trickier to navigate without getting burned.
Wyatt’s breath comes a little quickly, like he doesn’t know what to do with my uncovering all of his secrets. He takes a step closer, towering over me, but it doesn’t seem malicious. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how the move can be seen as intimidating.
I offer him one of my blandest smiles. “I just do, Mr. Reid.”
Turning back to Ezra again, I’m prepared for a moment of peace. I deserve it after this shitshow. “My office, Mr. Nguyen.”
5
Wyatt
Ican’t keep my gaze off Avery as she saunters out of my lab behind Ezra. Fire burns under my skin, wrapping around my muscles and blanking my mind in a way I’ve never experienced before. The heat will not retreat, even as I will it to.
But fuck, the way she closed her eyes and took the tiniest bites of that truffle. How she rolled it around in her mouth to inspect it, to dissect it, to pinpoint every single ingredient in my formula has undone something in me that I simply can’t describe.
I want to see her do it again. And again.
I want to test her. See if I can trick her. Check to see if she’s as good as she seems.
It has nothing to do with my job, though. I don’t know what to do with that.
Trying to shake away the image of Avery’s mouth, the fan of her dark lashes across her cheeks and the four freckles dotting her nose, I clench my hands at my sides with a want to do anything else.
Laurel, my food technician, sets her clipboard down on the lab table with a sigh. I’m not sure what the stern look on her face means accompanied with the long exhale of air, but it’s different from her normal.
“Why don’t we get these out of the way?” She reaches for the tray of chocolates, three untouched and one half-eaten by Avery.
I grab it out from under her and turn. “I’ll take care of it.”
This reaction is strange. I know it before I see the widening of Laurel’s eyes and the way she jerks back. I’ll add it to the list of the weird things my body is doing in response to Avery and the few minutes she spent in my space.
I take the tray to my office and slide it into the small fridge I keep there. Stalling for a second, I tuck away the weird lack of gravity lingering in my guts and return to the lab.
Laurel has her clipboard in hand again, obviously waiting for me.
“What?” I don’t mean for the word to come out so clipped.
She stiffens. I nod to the clipboard and whatever business she’s here for. She’s the one who keeps my lab organized, tending to the minutia I don’t really care about—taking inventory, adhering to standards for storing my ingredients, cleaning equipment, doing paperwork. I mean, I care that it gets done correctly. I simply don’t want to be the one to do it.
That’s why I have Laurel. She does it all for me. And she does it well. I rarely have to reprimand her.
“I need you to go through the new ingredients today. We need to test and rate them before we can proceed with the new project. And our new supplier of vanilla beans has sent samples as well.” Her pen taps against her clipboard as she checks things off mentally.
“What happened to our old supplier?” I ask, although I’m sure she’s told me before.
