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.”
“You need to this time.”
Michael held still, his face close to mine. Gold flecks mixed with the dark brown of his eyes. His skin was flawless, smooth, with just a hint of stubble I wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t a whisper away. It could have been a lovely position, if I wasn’t so mad I was vibrating.
“Emerson?” The question sounded more like a plea.
“Fine,” I snapped, making my decision. “Now back up .”
He pulled away from me, his eyes searching my face. I wondered if he could see my pulse pounding in my throat. I could feel it. I needed to think, and when he was close to me, thinking was impossible.
“Please don’t misunderstand … I’m only trying to …” With his fingertips still on the edge of the dresser, he closed his eyes, struggling with his words.
Seeing an escape, I ducked under his arm. There were some advantages to being short. “Trying to what? Scare me? Piss me off?”
“I didn’t mean to do either of those things.” He pushed away from the dresser to face me. “I’m so—”
“Stop.” I cut him off before he could say anything else. “Whether you meant to or not, you did. And now you should probably go.”
I didn’t want to hear an apology. I just wanted him out.
Our eyes met again, and unspoken words hung in the atmosphere. His face was a strange mix of emotions—the set of his mouth angry, his expression regretful.
“Was there something
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.”
“You need to this time.”
Michael held still, his face close to mine. Gold flecks mixed with the dark brown of his eyes. His skin was flawless, smooth, with just a hint of stubble I wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t a whisper away. It could have been a lovely position, if I wasn’t so mad I was vibrating.
“Emerson?” The question sounded more like a plea.
“Fine,” I snapped, making my decision. “Now back up .”
He pulled away from me, his eyes searching my face. I wondered if he could see my pulse pounding in my throat. I could feel it. I needed to think, and when he was close to me, thinking was impossible.
“Please don’t misunderstand … I’m only trying to …” With his fingertips still on the edge of the dresser, he closed his eyes, struggling with his words.
Seeing an escape, I ducked under his arm. There were some advantages to being short. “Trying to what? Scare me? Piss me off?”
“I didn’t mean to do either of those things.” He pushed away from the dresser to face me. “I’m so—”
“Stop.” I cut him off before he could say anything else. “Whether you meant to or not, you did. And now you should probably go.”
I didn’t want to hear an apology. I just wanted him out.
Our eyes met again, and unspoken words hung in the atmosphere. His face was a strange mix of emotions—the set of his mouth angry, his expression regretful.
“Was there something
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