Page 19 of Shark’s Edge

“No. I didn’t.” Too bad. Suck it up, darling. Criticism is part of the big bad business world. It’s how you get better. Stronger.

“Interesting,” she said, carefully and methodically covering the salad and putting it back on the tray.

Why were my feet walking toward her? I wasn’t going to apologize for not liking the damn dressing. No, that wasn’t it. It was curiosity. Were there tears again? Seriously? Over salad dressing?

“Are you crying, Ms. Gibson? Again?” My voice was rough and low in register.

Her head snapped back, fury burning in her eyes. Tears hadn’t been there when she first met my stare, but now they were brimming while I stood and watched in fascination.

And moved closer.

Closer.

What is happening?

She was like a tractor beam. Pulling me. Sucking me in. Those eyes. Those tears. Tugging me closer. Then her bottom lip trembled—ever so slightly—but I was close enough then, I couldn’t miss it.

“What’s this about? Salad dressing?” I growled.

“I changed that recipe.” Her voice, on the other hand, was barely a whisper.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re an asshole.” Now she gained some spine back.

“Hashtag truth.” I shrugged, channeling my eight-year-old niece and remaining unaffected by her remark.

“I can’t believe you just said that.” She raised her hand to wipe away the free-falling tears.

I caught her by the wrist and lowered her arm back to her side. Her stare, filled with indignation, was fixed to mine while I watched the tears track down the apples of her cheeks in single-file lines. Slowly, I caught one of the watery soldiers with the pad of my thumb and lifted it to my mouth, holding her gaze while I did so.

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, Little Red.” The salty drop exploded on my tongue, making me want to taste more of her.

“What?” Disbelief and arousal strangled the word in her throat.

I tilted my head in question while moving another step closer.

“What did you just call me?” she rasped, cheeks nearly the same scarlet as her hair.

“Little Red. Like Little Red Riding Hood. I’ve thought that since the first day you came in here. All this.” I reached out and fingered the flame tresses that framed her doll-like face. Her eyes slid closed and her nostrils flared. Clearly she liked when I touched her.

“You have no right to touch me.” Her hoarse whisper was barely audible in the silent suite.

“Tell me to stop. Just say the word.” My own voice was as low and rumbly as one of the famous performers whose names graced the marquee on the Pantages Theatre.

Her eyes popped open, seeming even wider than they were just moments before.

“Because I really don’t want to stop.”

Her bottom lip trembled again, making me want to bite her there. Then soothe the wound with my tongue.

“How old did you say you were?” I risked touching her again. This time, I swiped a tear from her cheek and painted her swollen bottom lip with the wetness, making the pink shade darker.

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?” The last tear. Captured. Painted.

“Say”—she inhaled shakily—“how old I am.”