Page 56 of The Pact
“Did you have a rough day?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
She lets out a small breath that sounds like a laugh. “Rough? Not really.”
I tilt my head and stop in front of her desk, close enough for me to see the faint flush across her cheeks. Close enough to see the way her eyes flick to my mouth.
“Okay,” I say lowly. “Then it’s something else.”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you always this nosy?”
“Only when it comes to you.”
She doesn’t respond.
“You’re flushed. Your breathing is off.”
Still nothing.
“And,” I add, dropping my voice, “you can’t seem to sit still. Your fingers have been tapping on the arms of your chair since I came in here.”
That gets a subtle reaction.
“I might be a little anxious, but I’m sure it will pass,” she says.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“Or,” I say, “maybe you were thinking about me.”
Her breath catches.
Confirmation.
I don’t smile. I don’t push. But I do hold her gaze, letting the silence stretch.
“Saint,” she starts.
“Doc,” I reply.
She exhales like she’s frustrated and flustered, but also debating on whether she wants to tell me to leave or not.
“Why do you think you can just walk in here and”—she gestures between us—“do this?”
I smirk. “Do what? I haven’t done a single thing.”
“This,” she says sharply.
I lean in, resting my hands on the edge of her desk.
“Figure you out?” I ask.
“There’s nothing to figure out,” she huffs.
“No?”
“No.”
I hold her stare.
“So you want me to leave then?” I ask again.
