Page 18 of Shark’s Edge

“What?” I barked toward the closed door.

Grant poked his head in cautiously.

Wisely.

“She still hasn’t come by?” He closed the door quietly behind him, as he always did. The man moved like a panther for his tall size.

I scowled at him, willing him to let it be. But he had never been one to bend to my will. Probably the one person who hadn’t—and the precise trait that made me respect him enough to consider him a friend.

When he went to take his usual spot on my black leather sofa, I stopped him. “Don’t get comfortable. You aren’t staying. If you need something, spit it out.” I paused for a beat. “And then get out.”

“Do you really think you should be alone with her?” He eyed me skeptically.

“What is that supposed to mean? I’m not some sort of monster, Twombley. You’ve been watching too many gossip shows after work. You need to get out more.” I smacked his rock-hard abdomen with the back of my hand as I ushered him toward the door. “Maybe hit the gym or something. You’re getting a little soft, doughboy.” I grinned as I said it, my knuckles still stinging from the contact.

“Yeah, okay. Keep telling yourself that. On both counts. I’m not the one who sprung a woody seeing a girl in tears at the beginning of the week.”

“Out.” I held the door open impatiently and then closed it with a whoosh as soon as he was clear of the jamb. When there was a knock just a few short moments later, I swung it open in a fury, ready to rip his head off and shit down his open throat.

“Fucking Grant, this is your last—”

Abbigail Gibson stood in the hallway, emerald eyes as breathtaking as Benbulben Mountain. I watched the rise and fall of her chest under her crisp white apron, the small, colorful logo moving in an enchanting rhythm with the heaving of her rib cage. Every jab and insult I’d carefully planned over the past few days fell away, and instead, for some unexplainable reason, I blurted, “Have you been to Ireland?”

“Wha—what? No. I mean, my family, my ancestors, are from there. Obviously.” She made a careless gesture toward her red mane. “I’ve seen pictures. But I’ve never actually been.”

Clearly my question had taken her off guard.

Hell, it had taken me off guard.

We stared at one another for unmeasured moments, people moving around us in the hall while we stayed locked in the force field of one another’s gaze. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and the spell was broken.

“I see you got my message.” I turned on my heel to move back into the safe confines of my office suite. I didn’t bother to look back. I just assumed she’d follow.

But my asshole routine didn’t override common courteousness with the fairer gender this time. Especially since Grant wasn’t around to play the part. I turned abruptly and asked, “Do you need help with that?” I gestured with my chin to the tray of food she carried.

“I can manage.” All signs of uneasiness from my initial question in the doorway dissolved. “Where would you like lunch today?” She seemed to have a bit of sass in her tone today. If I wasn’t mistaken, she might even be spoiling for a bit of a fight. I had become an expert at reading people’s body language from my years in business, and hers was telling a whole new tale today.

And why did my dick surge in my slacks at the thought of that? I couldn’t remember the last time a woman challenged me. In the boardroom or the bedroom. But I had a feeling Abbigail Gibson could be the one to do just that.

“The coffee table is fine.”

And wasn’t that a kick in the balls? Here stood this sexy-as-sin young thing. And I mean young. As in are you old enough to legally buy alcohol? young, and all I could think of was pushing her up against the wall and pushing her for more.

Inch by naughty inch.

Jesus Christ. I needed to get a handle on myself.

“How old are you?” Again, just blurted out the random question that came to mind while I stared at her ass in the black whatever-the-heck sort of pants she wore under her prim little apron.

She turned slowly from the coffee table to face me, a sly grin on her pink lips. “Pardon?”

“Just curious. You seem young to own a business.” I leaned my weight back against the edge of my desk, crossing my long legs out in front of me.

She turned back to the food, carefully unwrapping the salad and then the dressing.

“Don’t put that dressing on my salad,” I said while she was mid-pour. “Not if it’s the same as Monday’s.”

“You didn’t like it?” She looked at me. Was that hurt in her eyes?