Page 13 of Hearts Held
A small smile edges the corner of my mouth. “You apologize a lot for things you don’t have control over, or don’t need to.” I gesture with one hand as I grip the back of the chair. “Why are you working so much? You don’t have anyone to help you?”
She looks down, almost ashamed as a beautiful rose-kissed coloring adorns her high cheekbones. She taps the glass with one fingertip.
“I—I don’t have help. I’m also saving up so I may get out of my apartment. Though the big goal is to save up and have a small farm in America!” She looks up at me with her last statement. Her eyes light up once she mentions her goal. It is amusing and delightful to see her face turn to such happiness for a mere second, but then the light dims within hereyes.
“At least, that is my dream. I don’t know why I told you that. When I told my colleagues they started taking the piss of me. I’m sor—” She tries to say that damn word again but I outstretch my arm, holding out my long, slender finger to her soft, pouting lips.
“Don’t ever apologize for your dreams,” I rush out, sounding more stern than I mean to.
Her eyes slightly cross in an adorable way as she glances at my outstretched arm.
What the hell is wrong with me? What is this? Adorable?I only find things children do adorable, and even then, that is rare to come by.
I need to get away from this woman.
Slowly, I glance at my watch and act as if our time is up. Returning to my cold demeanor, I state, “I need to go. Nice chatting with you. Keep working hard, I know you’ll get your dream one day.” As I rise, I turn the chair back under the table.
Brielle offers a tiny, crooked smile from those pretty pouting lips and replies, “Thank you, sir.”
Oh? I likethat.
I like her calling me sir.
Then I gather my belongings from my table and head toward the main stairs, acting as if I cannot hear her as she asks for my name.
Chapter 5: Brielle
Lose Control, Teddy Swims
His amber eyes glisten in the dimly lit room. His stare is as intoxicating as his commanding presence.
It’s as if the world went silent and it’s only us remaining, suspended in time.
My flesh begins to prick as the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. When he approached the table, an icy ambiance surrounded the room, yet I remained comfortable in the cross hairs of this hunter. His amber irises remind me of that—hunting, a prey being tracked by a predator. Those that lie in the shadows and come out to devour their meal.
As I continue to assess each angle of his face, I’m in awe of how perfectly sculpted his jawline and highcheekbones are. His strong hands grip the back of the chair and my mind wanders as I watch his fingers flex. He has tiny scars painted across the top of his hand and on selective fingers. His pale white hair is perfectly combed back. His long dress shirt and suit pants press against the back of the chair.
I bite my bottom lip as my heart begins to pound and my words begin to race out of my mouth. “At least, that is my dream. I don’t know why I told you that. When I told my colleagues they started taking the piss of me. I’m sor—” As I try to finish my sentence, he reaches forward, holds one long index finger against my lips.
The touch is so minor, yet so sensual. I stare at his finger, then gaze up at him. His amber eyes are lit with something I can’t quite identify. I feel caught in this hunter’s cross hairs.
“Don’t ever apologize for your dreams,” his gravelly voice states so confidently. Almost like an order.
I can feel the blood pulsing through my limbs at his contact, my breaths becoming shallow as my body reacts to him, wanting more.
I haven’t had feelings for someone like this in a long time, or ever, if I can even remember.
My breath hitches and the room feels ever so cold.
Following his eyes as they glance down at his watch, I notice a trail of scars travels up his wrist and disappears under the sleeve of his shirt. I swallow.
“I need to go. Nice chatting with you. Keep working hard, I know you’ll get your dream one day,” he states. He rises like a strong mountain and pushes the chair back under the table.
I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He exudes the strength I wish I had. “Thank you, sir,” I murmur.
As he merges with the shadows, I realize I never caught his name. “Sir? Sir, I never got your name?” I plead with the darkness, but no reply comes.
At daybreak, brisk air greets me as I exit my apartment building and go to my shift at the funeral parlor. While there, I’ll help clean bodies and assist in other small tasks.
