Page 53 of Shark’s Edge

If only my plan hadn’t hit one semi-crucial glitch.

When I arrived at the Shark Enterprises penthouse, the man’s office was dark.

I stood in the middle of the luxurious space, all but scratching my head about the dilemma. But that would’ve meant moving, and somehow, I thought I might alter this reality by simply holding still long enough.

Someone softly cleared their throat near the door.

I spun around, plastering on a smile. “Oh, hi there. It’s Terryn, right?”

The young woman with the mouse-colored hair and the darting gaze wasn’t much of a talker—which had probably played in her favor in keeping her position with Sebastian. Still, she stated in a concise voice, “May I help you, miss?”

“Is, uhhh, Mr. Shark in today? I mean, we received the order for his lunch last night, but—”

“Of course he’s in today.” Her reply was a whip of sound. Sheez. The little mouse that could—and did. “He’s just not in right now.”

Screw the whip. The woman’s emphasis was a whole flogger, flailing across my brain. I backed up by a few steps.

He’s not in right now.

But that wasn’t what she’d said. Not really.

He’s not in for you, Abbigail Gibson.

“Uh. Okay.” I didn’t understand how I maintained my polite smile. Whatever the source of my strength, I was grateful for it. The last thing I needed was to expose my disappointment to Terryn, who’d clearly appointed herself as Sebastian’s secret spy. “I guess . . . I’ll just drop his food here?”

“That’s fine,” she responded, continuing to tap at her smart pad. Recording the four breaths I’d just taken, probably.

I loaded his tray up with a sandwich, drink, and dessert, but instead of setting it down, I handed it to the woman who looked ready to cut up the man’s food and then serve it to him while on her knees. If he insisted on going the adolescent route today, I could roll with that. I’d just be back tomorrow—probably after a long hard talk with myself tonight regarding this plan of mine.

Time is my ammunition, Mr. Shark.

I showed up the next day with a new lunch ready to roll—

To find out he still was still expertly playing his hand.

Oh, yes. “Project Avoid Abbigail” was still in full swing that afternoon.

And the next.

And the next.

And even after the weekend, which had brought a botched supplies order, a broken coil in the walk-in cooler, and a panicked what-do-I-wear-to-an-internship-interview call from one of the Intrepids—all leading to my Monday morning attitude of truly not caring if the bastard decided to avoid me for the rest of freaking time.

Or so I told myself.

Had even almost convinced myself, through most of Tuesday.

But when Wednesday came, I had to confront the disgusting inevitable.

I did care.

Which was beyond ludicrous and well past stupid—a perfect description for the behavior he’d descended to, not me. Behavior for which there’d never be an apology.

On top of all that, I gave up hope that the man—if I ever saw him again—would confess he’d actually liked the evening we’d been enjoying before my phone call. There’d be no real resolution of what had really killed his mood that night. I’d never know if it was truly Viktor’s interruption or if the call had saved him from having to be polite about my awkwardness and clumsiness.

But I was over playing the guessing game about it.

Just like I was over trying to wear him down with kindness.