Page 80 of Shark’s Edge

At least I was silent about the repetition. Small miracles were still possible.

“‘Dammit?’”

Or maybe not.

Sebastian’s narrowed gaze, on top of his incredulous drawl, confirmed I’d been just as pathetic about spewing the words aloud. He leaned against the door, cocking his head as if to taunt me with the words again, but instead queried, “Is that really all you got for me here, Little Red?”

I would’ve preferred the profanity again. I think he knew that.

Instead of saying that, I shrugged. At the moment, it was shorthand for my middle finger. I think he knew that too. At last, I summoned up a clenched smile and breezed out, “Fine. Sure; whatever. Let’s do this. I’m sure tending bar will be part of owning my own place, so I can use the listening-but-not-caring skills.”

One of those weird flashes took over his face, as if he got sideswiped by emotion and had no idea what to with it. “Your own place?” he echoed. “Like a brick-and-mortar restaurant of some sort?”

“Not just ‘some sort.’” I fought to make it a snarky snap, but this subject deserved more than sarcasm. “It’s going to be a contender, even in this city. Top-shelf, all the way. Edgy décor but old-world service. White linen on every table and tasting rooms for wine and whiskey. Classic menu favorites with modern twists. Like the coolest food truck in town colliding with a luxurious restaurant. I’m even thinking of a garden for specialty dessert service. And—” At last, common sense broke in. As my embarrassed flush crept over my cheeks, I slammed my hands over them. “Holy crap,” I muttered, able to add in a genuine laugh. “Some epic bartender I’ll make, huh?”

A smile spread across Sebastian’s face. There was another holy-shit-I-have-feelings flash along with it. “Bullshit. You’ll be an awesome bartender,” he said, infusing it with the steady confidence he’d learned for Vela’s sake—or so I’d thought up until now. “But you’d better hire a team of good backups, because you’ll get pulled away a lot to greet VIPs.”

“VIPs?” I hated feeling like I was walking into his punch line but couldn’t help myself. The fantasy was too enticing.

“It’s an acronym.” He was still authentic and gentle, as if explaining tax codes to his niece. “It stands for Very Importan—”

“I know what it stands for.” Swiftly, I qualified, “I mean, usually. But—”

“So don’t underestimate the value of them. Even if someone’s a second AD for straight-to-video movies and insists he’s a VIP, treat him like one. Of course, the real ones get more than a hug and a free drink.”

I hitched out a hip, propping my hand to the same side. “So which one are you, Mr. Shark? An insister or the real deal?”

“Me?” He brushed out a dismissive hand. “Pfffft. I’m just an asshole, remember? No freebies for me, though I will insist you keep bottles of all the expensive stuff around for when I stroll in unannounced.”

I threw my head back with a new laugh. “Unannounced, huh? You plan on pulling that number a lot?”

“Oh, at least once a week. Because—”

“You’re an asshole. Yeah, now I remember.”

He pushed away from his spot in front of the door and approached me with steady intent. Once again, I struggled to swallow on an arid throat. Shark did things for cobalt blue that shouldn’t be legal.

“But I’m an asshole who thinks your place is going to be insanely successful.”

“Well, thank you.” There was something weirdly empowering about this. Yes. I actually could form words even with perfection incarnate entering my airspace and turning my knees to gruel. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk out, is it?” I ordered strength back into my legs and stiffness back into my spine. “You want to drag out the issue of my situation a little more, I take it?”

He halted in his tracks. We were still at least a couple of feet apart, which was fine with me. I could still think at this distance.

“All right, that probably wasn’t the best choice of words,” he said from tight teeth, and I almost responded with a huge grin. It was likely the closest to an apology he would ever get.

“All right. Pardon me for my forwardness, Mr. Shark, but what did you mean?”

He dragged a hand across his scalp. “That maybe we can talk about this like adults? For once?”

As he dropped the hand to his nape, my attention was pulled back to the nasty bruise below his eye. I fought and failed to ignore the sympathy that hit because of it. Damn. What the hell had happened in here? I noticed the two new monitors that replaced the ones he and I had knocked over, but now his desk was the only pristine zone in the room. Everywhere I glanced, there was some toppled or missing décor. And was that blood on one of the sofa arms?

Dammit. This time, I really kept it restricted to silence. Don’t tell yourself you care about any of this, Abs. And for God’s sake, don’t show him that you do.

I felt better after the internal pep talk. I was doing well here. Just a few more minutes, and things would be even easier. I’d had twenty-four hours of practice now. My hurt-and-outrage combo had served me well since getting out of here yesterday, acting like an emotional balm on the Sebastian Shark bites. It had even worked on all the fantasies too. I’d gotten a great night’s sleep, with no fantasy sex turning me into a sweaty mess by morning.

Now, I was determined to keep that track record going strong.

Even as I followed Sebastian over to the front of his desk.