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“Yes, they are.” Focused on each other, the only sound in the room was the water flowing from the running faucet.
I broke the stare, shifting my attention back to the vase before it overflowed. “I’m supposed to tell you that you can take loft number two. But it doesn’t come cheap. I hope helping little old me pays well.”
“For you, I’d work pro bono.”
“For me?” I bit my lip, turning off the water before looking up at him again.
“You’re special.”
“That all depends on your definition of special.”
His answering smile was slow and deliberate. I stared at his mouth for a few brief seconds before giving myself a mental pinch and shoving the flowers haphazardly into the vase. “Thanks again. Zinnias are my favorite,” I said, after clearing my throat.
Twice.
“I’m glad you like them,” he said, his smile growing softer. “They made me think of you.”
More staring at his mouth.
Geez a lou.
I scooped up the flowers, and he followed me to my room, taking a seat in my recently vacated chair. I’d just finished clearing a space on my dresser when he spoke my name.
“Emerson?”
“Yes,” I answered absentmindedly, concentrating on arranging the fragrant blossoms so that the taller ones were in the back.
“Why were you doing a search on Liam Ballard?”
The tone of his voice sent chills up my spine. I stopped fiddling and answered cautiously, watching him through the mirror. “Because he’s the founder of the Hourglass?”
Maybe I caused some kind of brain damage when I flipped him over my shoulder. His expression changed, moving from concern to anger in the split second the word Hourglass was uttered.
“Michael?” I turned around. He was just as frightening face-to-face as he was in the reflection, his brown eyes almost black, his full lips flattened into a thin line. “What—”
He interrupted me. “How did you find Liam’s name?”
“It came up in an article about the Hourglass and Bennett alum—”
“What else did you find when you searched him?” The question sounded more like an accusation, his tone stone cold. I didn’t know this Michael.
I didn’t like this Michael.
“That he”—I paused, forcing my voice to stay level—“that he died in a fire.”
He stood and crossed the room in a few long strides. I took an uncertain step back, my spine bumping uncomfortably against the dresser.
Speaking each word distinctly, he leaned over and looked into my eyes. “You need to mind your own business.”
I swallowed the baseball-sized lump in my throat. “Why does that sound like a threat?”
“It’s a warning,” he said, placing his hands on the dresser. His forearms bumped against my shoulders. I was glad I was wearing a T-shirt instead of a tank top. I didn’t think his bare skin touching mine would be helpful in a situation like this. “Forget Liam Ballard.”
“Why?” I asked breathlessly, feeling caged in, trapped by his stare as much as his arms.
“Just do,” he answered, authoritative and dismissive, his voice as hard as steel. “I’ll handle the Hourglass. Trust me.”
“Sorry, boss,” I said, making the jump from scared to angry. “I don’t generally believe people who have to tell me to trust them.”
