Page 17 of The Hitman
I try to slip past him, but he blocks me with a hand on my shoulder.
Strong, firm, and sexy. That’s how’d I’d describe Jaxon Knight’s hands.
His gruff voice glides over me, raising a shiver from my bones. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Slowly, reluctantly, I lift my gaze.
His eyes rake over me, sharp and unreadable, like he’s probing the fractures in my poorly put-together facade.
“I was just having a snack before heading back to bed.”
As if just now remembering where we are, he glances at the kitchen.
“I know you’re going to remind me that I have food on my side of the house.” I lift my shoulders. “And you’d be correct. But I just thought…”
The conversation I’ve rehearsed about accompanying him for future dinners dies on the tip of my tongue.
“You thought what, Miss Finley?”
Jaxon patiently waits for me to elaborate, but the words are wedged in my throat. Sure, not having a loving family, a career, or any friends kind of sucks. But telling my boss I was hoping to see him tonight sounds borderline pathetic—and regardless, do I really want to spend time with the kind of man who hides weapons in his house?
“Never mind. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Knight.”
I don’t get far before his deep baritone stops me. “Would you like to have a drink with me, Callie?”
My fists curl at my sides.
I am putty in this man’s hands and helpless to find the spine I need to resist him.
“Sure.”
I cave too quickly to be considered even remotely smooth, and I blame the bundle of nerves in my stomach for it.
“Great. I’ll make us something.”
Jaxon moves through the living room before disappearing behind the glass partition of his beautifully crafted koi pond. Water trickles over the glass, and his silhouette ripples behind it while the soft sound of clinking glasses and a cork popping beckon me to follow.
I step into a cozy lounge nook with an electric fireplace that casts a faint reflection from the Edison bulbs in a modern chandelier. A green velvet couch curves around the space like a subtle invitation, and the full bar gleams under the soft lighting.
“Preference?” he asks with his back to me.
His rolled sleeves and thin shirt reveal just enough muscle to make my already-dry throat feel like sandpaper.
Not much of a drinker, I shake my head, and say, “Surprise me.”
“All right then. Gentleman’s choice.”
A dimple creases his cheek when he turns over his shoulder, and I can’t help the thrill that comes from knowing I put it there.
He pours a dark, amber liquid into a crystal glass before filling the one beside it. He carries them over to where I linger at the edge of the room, like I’m afraid to commit to what we’re doing here—blurring lines, that is.
I take the drink he offers once he approaches. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
My toes curl under my baggy pajama pants when they capture his attention.
“What should we cheers to?” he asks, all gruff and rumbly, like a bad boy with a hidden agenda.
