Notthat I wanted to.
He’s a client.
This is just a comparison, you know?
To help get a clear picture of how tall this man is.
He extends the card out to me.
And then I feel it.
My hand.
Seriously, Nova? You couldn’t have washed your damn hands?
I hide it behind my back before taking the card with my non-sticky hand. “Sorry about that,” I wave the card. “I ate a popsicle earlier and forgot to wash my hands because I got scared of being late. If you’re offended, I totally get it. I would be too.”
Growing up, I’ve been taught not to take or give things with your left hand. It’s considered ill-mannered and disrespectful.
Consider me all of the above.
“It’s fine.” Dean says curtly while looking at me with those unnerving malachite eyes of his. He takes out something from the inside of his suit jacket. The sudden action forces me to focus on the chest hair peeking out and the way his pecs struggle to stay within thegrounds of his shirt. If he took a deep breath, the buttons would pop open.I’m sure of it.
I jump when his hand gently grabs my wrist over the material of my shirt. He rips open the white wrapper with his teeth before taking out the wet wipe. Warmth relishes through me when he lifts my hand to be at eye level with his.
He looks at me, a question in his eyes. My mouth falls open because why is this so hot? I nod with permission.
With careful precision, he wipes at the sticky hand.
Electrifying shocks plummet across our skin when his other hand cups mine from the bottom.
Calluses, a whole ton of them.
Through the molds of our existence in each other’s space, his touch sinks into me like a drug itching for its own addiction.
I’m staring at him with wide eyes, I’m sure.
His tattooed hand works slowly with intense focus, like he’s doing the most important task in the world instead of wiping popsicle residue off. Colourless vines start from his index finger and float over his knuckles and cover the upside of his hand. They continue onwards, under his sleeve. Does he have the same tattoos he has on his hand?
“Thank you.” It comes out breathless and weird, but he doesn’t notice.
He moves back, colliding with the edge of his table. “You’re welcome.”
Letting air in my lung with a deep, inaudible breath, I wave the card up again with a blinding smile. “So, what is this for?”
“Fifth anniversary,” he grumbles while discarding the wipe in a bin. He moves to grab something else from the pocket. It’s like Mary Poppin’s bag up in there. Next thing you know, he’ll take out a ring, get down on one knee, and surprise me with a proposal.
Dean takes out a handkerchief from the inside of his jacket. “Wipe it off.”
Okay, so not a ring.
Embarrassment blooms over my cheeks, “Thanks.” I take the cloth from him and roughly wipe at my palms. “Fifth anniversary for what?”
He goes back to his intense frowns. “Vuk Securities.”
I stop wiping. “I don’t work for the company, Mr. Vuk.”
He stares,again. Does he have a staring problem? “It’s your choice.”
