Page 9 of Boardroom Vows
He comes back into the room a minute later with a glass of water and a small bottle of ibuprofen. "Here. Don't choke."
I take the two pills he offers and throw them down the hatch with enough water to ensure I don't asphyxiate. That'd be a really shitty way to go.
When the meds are gone, Afon nods and retreats to the other side of the living room to sit in an overstuffed armchair. He watches me steadily, unblinking.
I twiddle my thumbs as an awkward silence takes over. Ultimately, I can't stop myself from saying, "So…"
But before I can even proceed to the second syllable, he's shaking his head. "No."
"I haven't even asked anything yet!"
"I know. The answer is still no."
"You don't even know what the question?—"
"I know what the question is, Caroline."
I shudder at the way he says my name.Kah-roh-leen,frosted over and carved into sharp pieces by his Russian accent. My whole body breaks out in goosebumps, head to toe, despite this really quite cozy blanket I'm burrito'd up in. "So I came all this way for nothing then."
He tugs at his beard in exasperation. "I didn't tell you to do that."
"No, but I?—"
His raised hand once again stops me in my tracks. "Here's what's going to happen," he rumbles in his deep voice. "I'm going to ask you three questions, and you're going to answer them. Once that's done, there will be no more talking. You'll go to sleep, and in the morning, you'll leave. You will not ever come back."
"I—"
"That was not one of the questions."
I close my mouth.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, weathered hands dangling loose between them. It's damn near pornographic how strong and masculine those hands look. Strong knuckles, scarred and tattooed, with a dusting of dark hair rising up his forearms, which are nicely framed by the cuffed sleeves of the thick flannel shirt he's wearing. A dull bronze band shines on his left ring finger.
That puzzles me. There's no sign of a woman in this place at all. It's manly mountain man through and through, albeit a clean and well-organized manly mountain man with a good eye for interior design.
But apparently, he's married.
Weird.
His voice jars me back to reality. "One: Does anyone know you're here?"
"No," I lie at once. It just seems like the answer he's looking for, and I really would like to avoid pissing him off.
"Not one living soul?"
I then promptly fold at the first follow-up question. For an Ivy League educated lawyer, I'm turning out to be pretty shit when I'm on the wrong side of the deposition. "I may have told Cassandra I was going on a wellness retreat of sorts. To, like, find myself. Forest bathing, immersion in nature, that kind of thing."
The derisive snort that escapes his nostrils makes it painfully clear what Afon thinks about "that kind of thing." He sighs wearily, as if exhausted already by this unwanted interrogation.
"Question number two. Are you hurt anywhere other than your head?"
I take a moment to do a mental scan from head to toe. Ankle: tender, not broken. Knee: probably purple by tomorrow, but structurally sound. Pride: deceased.
"Just my head. And my—uh. My ankle, a little. Like, a one out of ten. Maybe a two."
"Which one."
"Left."
