Is it possible to die of humiliation? Because holy hell am I on a roll. Anxiety practically vibrates my entire body, and I shiver as I reach for the container, spewing apologies.
Boyd shuffles the Tupperware into his arms, rolling back in his chair so he’s just out of reach. “What are you doing?”
I blink, my mind spinning just trying to keep up. “I... you’re allergic. Shouldn’t I get these away from you?”
“You should get away from me, yes.” Bringing the cookie to his pillowy lips, he bites off a piece, holding my gaze while he chews slowly. Tingles dance across my skin as I take in his jaw as it works, and I feel the bob of his throat in my pussy when he swallows, a dull ache spreading through me like an asteroid hurtling through space. “But only because I have a terrible habit of indulging in the things that are bad for me. I like the pain, princess. Is that someone you think is worthy of an apology? A coward?”
My mind swims through a million different shallow waters, struggling to keep afloat even though I could probably stand if I really wanted to. I also have no idea what he’s talking about, or why I’d need to have an opinion on his personal preferences—but the hungry look in his caramel eyes makes every logical thought flee my brain, short-circuiting even the bad wiring.
I think Boyd Kelly would eat me alive, truth be told. Not that I necessarily think he wants to, even as his gaze drops to my legs, lingering on the exposed skin between the hem of my skirt and my boots. And while he’s a different kind of dark than most other men in town, I think his is the kind you don’t ever find your way out of.
It’s that all-consuming, no-moon-in-the-sky darkness that permeates your soul until it’s all you know.
The kind born from sadness, a violence wrought from pain and not the other way around.
A scoff pulls me from my thoughts, and I refocus, watching him spit the cookie out into a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slide the Tupperware back in my direction. “Keep your cookies, and keep your apologies, Fiona. Save them for some bastard who gives a shit. I am not that guy.”
There’s a clicking sound as he reaches beneath his desk, and the office door cracks open, Chelsea’s blue eyes shining through the space. “Mr. Kelly, I’m so sorry, she—”
“I don’t give a fuck. Please escort Ms. Ivers from the premises and get me Finn Hanson on the phone.”
Snatching the cookies off his desk, unsure of what the fuck just happened, I stalk from the office before that bitch can try to say she told me so, power walking so I don’t have to see her smug little face before I hop into the elevator. My heart pounds in my ears, embarrassment coursing through every nerve ending in my body, and when I get downstairs and outside, I collapse onto a nearby bench just outside the brick building, a confused sob tearing from my chest.
But no tears come. They rarely do—sunshine and rain exist in a mutually exclusive agreement inside my body, never overlapping to create rainbows. It’s always one or the other, which means I’ve gotten used to keeping the rain on the inside.
No one wants to see that, anyway.
Everyone wants to bask in the sun.
Correcting the lid on the container, I reach in and grab the uneven stack of cookies, tossing one to the pigeons collecting near my feet and sighing at the uniformity inside, taking solace in the calmness it provides.