Page 80 of Interpreter

I’m not. Trust me when I tell you, I am never wrong in my interpretation of situations.

I pull my hands up and over the hood so he can see me sign the words as I speak. “Yes, you should be ashamed. More than ashamed, actually.”

Those eyebrows rise even farther up his forehead.

Maybe I exaggerated a bit.

Maybe I am a tad salty he didn’t invite me.

Maybe I am slightly—just slightly—jealous that he spent hours out here, shirtless, washing these band mom’s cars while they sat ogling, coming up with all the creative things they would do to his body while their husbands were on work trips. Okay, fine, some are probably single, but that’s not the point. I’m his preceptor. He works for me. Well, not technically. Okay, this is really veering off track, but Tim’s adorable brown eyes are narrowed and his cheek twitches. Interpretation: he’s mad as fuck.

Standing taller, the soles of my feet aching from standing so long, I dig my hole deeper as the jealous bullshit continues to flow out of my mouth with absolutely no filter.

“You should be disciplined. This”—I make a sweeping motion with my hand—“is a school event.”

Oh, God, just stop, Milah.

I nod. “Yeah. A school event. You are working in the capacity of an employee of the school.”

Yes, queen. Now you are making a little bit of sense.

“And when you are working as an employee who is not yet out of the probationary period, you must have your preceptor with you at all times.”

Finishing the signs, I rest my hands on the hood and smile up to meet the eyes of one pissed-off male.

“Are you finished?” he grates out, wiping his hand along his chest as if he isn’t sure he wants to sign his next words.

I tilt my chin, firm and confident in my ridiculous excuse to start an argument with him.

“First off,” he says, clearer than usual, “I was not acting in the capacity of an employee.”

I know that, but I couldn’t very well say I’m just pissed off at you for not inviting me, now could I? I shrug like I don’t agree.

He scoffs, shaking his head and swiping his fingers along his lips. It’s not sexy. Especially when he follows those same lips with his tongue.

Totally not sexy.

Love a man that uses lip balm to moisturize, not one who does it with his tongue.

“Second, even if I was, then my preceptor”—his eyes narrow into an annoyed squint—“showing up in a top that is clearly see-through—” I try to interrupt and argue, but he shushes me by holding up one finger and flashing me an animalistic look that does nothing to dry my panties. “It’s my turn to talk now.”

I make a face.

Fine. Speak, papi. Even though you shouldn’t.Seriously, my body is already flushed, and I feel pretty sure it isn’t from the heat.

“As I was saying, a see-through shirt and a skirt that barely covers the employee’s ass—”

“That is not true! This skirt comes to my fingertips.”

That damn finger goes up again, and he makes a shh sound.

I clench my teeth together to keep from saying anything else until he finishes lying.

“And said preceptor—if she was acting in the capacity of a preceptor—would have known how unprepared she looked showing up to supervise her charge when her five-inch heels kept sinking into the wet grass and when she bent over, getting out ofCal’scar, flashing her ass to her students and all the horny men here.”

Let’s get one thing straight. I did not mean for the sponge to hit his face when my crazy kicked in. Who knew there was a bucket within my reach? Who knew I had such a good arm?

Obviously, I didn’t mean it. I clearly didn’t aim. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have hit that pretty face of his. I would have gone for something a little lower. But, alas, such is my luck.

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