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I can probably handle Bryn all on my own.
I’ve survived corporate espionage you’d find in a good spy thriller.
Surely, I can survive one vehicle ride with a sultry, half-dressed, foul-mouthed knock out…
Right?
With me behind Hurst in the driver’s seat and Bryn behind Holmes, we secure ourselves inside with the bouquet of flowers resting comfortably on the space between us.
The added barrier should bring me comfort.
Yet it doesn’t.
It leads to me feeling even more insecure.
Uncertain whether this is a good idea.
That being anywhere near her is a good idea.
We’re not even two minutes past the iron WX gates when she inquires, “Who are the flowers for?”
“My parents,” I quietly answer, body positioned away to minimize the possibility of being seen. “I place fresh flowers at the door of their mausoleum and inside.” When she doesn’t comment in return, I feel compelled to add, “It’s basically the only thing I leave the estate for.”
Suddenly, there’s a nudge against my leg that’s attached to a casual, “Your turn.”
Spotting the folded over word search book and pen has bewilderment blasting through my expression. “For?”
“You find a word. Circle it. Pass it back to me.”
“Yes, I know how word searches are completed.”
“Then quit acting like I just asked you to boldly go where no man has gone before and get to searching.”
Not laughing inches near impossible.
How does she do that?
How does she always seem to do that?
I relocate the activity in my lap to begin my search, pen stationed in my clutches, sleeves of my hoodie hanging over them to keep the burns hidden. What should be a mindlessly easy activity, doesn’t take long to prove otherwise.
Why is everything so scrambled?
And why are all the letters so fucking small?
“Harder than you thought, huh?” She teases, frame noticeably closer than it was moments ago. “Want some help?”
“I can handle it.” My eyes return to skimming the page; however, I find myself anxious to keep her talking. Close. “What um…What’s your field of study?”
“Why?” The proximity of her retort infers her position is wedged directly next to the flowers. “You can’t employ me.”
“You don’t know that,” I smoothly argue, tip of the pen hovering above the page, waiting for something to circle. “Wilcox Enterprises is a multifaceted organization. We do much more than just whiskey. We have for decades. Whiskey is just what we’re known for.”
“I’m beginning to know you as the man who sucks at these things.” Her finger lands on paper causing my breath to hitch. “Wrench.” The digit slowly drags itself downward summoning my dick to do the opposite. “The category, Mr. Wilcox, is tools.”
Rather than circle the object, I tip my face just a tad in her direction. “Why are you upset with me now?”
“I’m not.”
