Entice (6 page)

There’s her giggle again, a soft and dainty sound that I already adore. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Speaking of tips, we don’t share here. What you make is yours.”

“And the fifteen an hour?” She bites her lip, eyes tearing up.

“Yeah.”

She pounces into me like a puma, hugging the breath from me. “Oh my God, thank you! That’s just…amazing!”

I rub her back, soaking up the clean, crisp scent of her hair. “I’m glad you’re happy, Emmett.” And I am. Glad isn’t even the right word. For some reason, making this sweet angel’s day has instantly become my priority.

“I really need the ladies’ room now,” she says with a laugh. “I’m so happy I could tinkle!”

I laugh, really laugh, at that. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Come on.” I usher her through the hall with a hand to her back.

Once she’s tinkled, we head up to Dane’s office to do her paperwork and I can’t help but ask, “So, how’ve you been these last few days? Do anything fun?” Cause you missed a certain birthday party.

“No, nothing fun. Read a book or two, wrote a paper. You know.” She shrugs.

I don’t know…and I don’t know where you were that night and I want to. But for once, I bite my tongue before blurting out the complete truth. Something tells me mentioning being at that girl’s party is not a good idea.

Her voice pulls me from my haze and I focus back on her across the desk where’s she’s been filling out forms, her little tongue peeking out in concentration. “Oh, I guess you need my cards. They’re in my purse.” She sets down her pen and starts to stand.

“I’ll go get it.” I jump up, trying to be a gentleman. “You can keep working on the rest of the stack.”

She studies me, twisting her lip. “That’s awfully nice of you?” she almost asks, as though surprised.

Why would it surprise her that I’m a nice guy? Ah, back to the BJ—she thinks I’m a dog.

“Emmett,” I hitch myself up on the corner of the desk, “I am a nice guy. I’m single and she offered. Have you ever done anything you regret? A chance was there so I took it kind of thing?”

A glance to the left, right, finally back to me. “Yes, I have.”

“Okay, so you understand. I’m not depraved, Emmett, I’m young and unattached. First impressions aren’t always the right ones. At least not all-telling anyway.”

For instance, you don’t seem like a stripper.

“As a matter of fact,” I continue, “you seemed so sure and cocky then, but the sweet, shy violet I see now seems more like who you really are?” I raise my brows in question, challenging her.

“Sometimes you have to own the situation or it will own you,” she replies. “Never let ‘em see you sweat, right? I didn’t want to go to a rowdy race, or walk up on typical Mariah, but I did,” she shrugs, “so I went with it.”

So did I, I think to myself, but decide not to say it. “I’ll be right back.” I hear her start to say something as I leave the room, but she must think better and stops herself. I want so badly to turn around and rush to her, to pull her out of that chair and make her forget everything but right now. Instead…I go get her purse.

She doesn’t bring it up again when I return and the rest of the morning goes smoothly, me rambling out boring instructions, her soaking it all in with enthusiastic questions and answers. I have no doubt, from her exuberance over HR bullshit, that she’ll do a fantastic job.

Here and there, through the natural flow of conversation, I find out a few new facts about her and offer some of my own in return. She’s so easy to be around, with an ease to her voice that seeps through your pores and soothes your soul. I’m enraptured, inundating her with information just to hear her laugh or whisper a small gasp across her lips, both so intoxicating that I don’t even care that she now knows I take blatant advantage of free sample stands and am not above wearing mismatched socks with my boots. She thought both those facts were funny, not weird, and shared that she refuses to write in red ink (something about everything written in red is bad news) and still has all her sticker albums from when she was a kid.

At one, I ask her if she’s ready to call it a day. Her coloring has changed to a pasty white and the speed of her gait has slowed significantly.

“Are you feeling okay?”

She sighs and drops in the nearest chair. “I haven’t eaten in while is all. Can we take a quick break for lunch?”

Well shit, I’ve been so selfishly basking in her little noises that I’ve starved her! “Emmett, you should have said something. I’m sorry. I’ll go grab us something. What do you want?”

“No, no, I have something in my bag. Let me—”

I saw her tiny purse; she’d be lucky to get a fucking cracker pack in there. “Then what am I gonna eat?” I smile at her. “I’m going anyway. Please let me get you something. My treat.”

“A salad would be great, thank you.”

“Salad it is.” I tap the end of her nose instinctively and regret it when she flinches. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think before—”

“I’m just hungry,” her smile is placating, “you don’t have to apologize. In fact,” her eyes scrutinize me cooly, “you’ve already said sorry to me more times than anyone ever has. Are you always this polite?”

“I don’t know.” My head bows and I rub the back of my neck, peering back up at her. “Maybe I’m overdoing it a bit. Kinda like you thanking me.” I pop my brows, questioning her with a cocky smile.

A brilliant idea of how to get to know this girl even more without begging on my hands and knees for any information she’ll spare forms in my head. “I’ll make a deal with you,” I say. “Every time you say thank you, you have to tell me something about yourself.”

Her mouth twists as she considers it. “Fine, but same goes for you every time you apologize.”

Then there’s that comfortable silence where her deep green eyes widen in sincerity and search mine for the same. She’d make a great interrogator; no one could hide from that look or that face.

“All right,” I agree with a nod and pull out my keys. “I’ll be right back. You fine to stay here for a minute?”

She looks around hesitantly. “Oh, um, sure.”

“I’ll lock the door behind me. Unless you want to come with me?”

“On your motorcycle?”

“Yeah.” I give her a knowing grin. Chicks can’t resist a bike.

She shakes her head rapidly. “No, thank you. I’ll stay here.”

What? I try to hide the shocked disappointment in my voice. “Okay, I’ll be right back then.”

“I snore.”

“Huh?”

“I said no, thank you, so I owe you a fact. I snore,” she shrugs. “Not like lumberjack snore or anything, more like a teeny tiny,” she holds up her thumb and finger in measure, “sound other than breathing.”

Most adorable thing I’ve ever heard in my life. It takes strength I didn’t know I possessed to only chuckle and keep walking. “Good to know. Be right back.”

—Emmett—

A
break, finally. New, fresh, focused. My chance to really make a dent. Thank you, aligned stars; thank you, ray of light shining down upon me. Take it, scared girl. Take the chance to do great things. Pave your path and walk it, head high.

“What’s that?”

“Oh!” I shriek, startled and frankly, scared. “My God, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” His kind face now wears a frown of remorse.

“It’s my journal. I like to free write; sometimes I get lost in it and forget the world around me.” I quickly tuck the small spiral notepad in my back pocket. “You owe me a fact.”

He chuckles, a deep, mesmerizing sound, and rubs his chin. “I guess I do. Okay, let’s see…” he ponders, “I have seven tattoos.”

“Seven?” My eyes search frantically over what of him I can see… nothing. “That’s a lot of tattoos.” I have to find as many ways as possible to get him to apologize. This man and the mystery rolling off him is my new fascination. I could so easily breathe him in and let myself become intoxicated. This enigma becoming my reality, but no…no regrets, Emmett.

“I got you ranch.” He hands me my salad and unwraps my silverware for me. “Everybody likes ranch, right?”

Forgive me for the trickery.

“Eh, it’s okay. I’ll eat around it.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, you didn’t say, so I guessed.”

“Why seven?”

He looks at me, puzzled at first, but when he sees the coy smirk of my own, realization hits and a grin the likes of which I’ve never dreamt catches up to his dancing sapphire eyes. “You like ranch, don’t you?”

I nod, biting back a giggle. “Why seven?”

“All right, sneaky girl, but remember you switched it up when I start deciding what facts you get to reveal.”

“Fair enough.” I take a bite, full of ranch and delicious. “Mmm, so good.” I wipe my mouth. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you are sooo welcome, Miss What Were You Writing In That Little Notepad?”

Well shit, the teacher became the student.

“Free writing. Whatever falls out. I put the pen on the paper and go numb. Sometimes I can’t even make sense of what it says.”

“Do you write anything else? Poetry?”

“I dabble.” I take another bite to excuse myself from saying more.

He lets my answer settle in, nodding as his mind wraps around it. “You know that game in school, Heads Up Seven Up?”

I shake my head no since I’ve never heard of it and continue my assault on my salad.

“Seven people go to the front of the room and everyone else puts their head down with their eyes closed and their thumb poking up. The teacher says go, and the seven chosen ones go tap a thumb. When everyone’s done, the class lifts their heads and if your thumb got tapped, you try to guess who did it. If you’re right, you get to go up and be one of the thumb tappers next round.”

Mouth full, I wave my hand for him to continue.

“I hated that fucking game. No one ever picked me. So, I like to do things in seven, kinda like my big “fuck you” to all of them.”

“No one ever picked you? Not once?”

“Nope,” he pops his answer, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Why not? Were you a bully, a mean kid?”

“Not at all.” He pauses for only a second, seemingly instinctually. “I was a poor kid.”

I picture Sawyer as a sweet little boy anxiously waiting, with his thumb up, praying that would be the round someone finally picked him. Kids are so cruel, and yes, that hurt sticks with you forever—Sawyer was the proof of that. I don’t even realize tears are welling up in my eyes until Sawyer reaches over and gently rubs my arm with his timid fingers.

I didn’t flinch. Odd.

“Hey, don’t cry for me, angel. It’s not a big deal; just bullshit kids. It’s stupid actually, a weird hang-up I have. Shhh,” he dips his head to catch my watery eyes and pleads with me, “dry those eyes. You’re breaking my heart.”

“I would have.” I sniffle, somewhat embarrassed. About to cry in front of the boss on training day, nice, Emmett. “I would have picked you. I promise.”

“You think so, huh? And how can you be so sure?”

“Because my friends were in my books. We’d have been the perfect pair. I could’ve tapped your thumb at least once a day and told you wonderful stories of the lands we could disappear to where everyone was nice to everyone. And you, you could have said you thought my glasses and buck teeth were beautiful and helped me climb that huge tree behind the library. That thing was so big and tall and strong and all I ever wanted to do was disappear way up in it and read.”

“Emmett?”

“And I’m not a crybaby, I swear. I don’t know what came over me, really.”

“Emmett?”

I lock on his gaze, no other words needed from me. Of one thing I’m sure; this is the part where he talks and I listen. One certain look from this man, the one he’s giving me now, makes that crystal clear.

“I’m going to kiss those beautiful lips of yours.”

Don’t let him, Emmett. Say no, turn your head. You need this job and things will get real messy real quick if you kiss him.

“Now?” I squeak, obviously forgetting the pep talk I just finished having with myself.

“Right fucking now.” He leans his face into mine and brushes his words across my lips. “I’d rather die than wait another second. Are you gonna kill me or kiss me?” His pools of midnight blue flick nervously waiting for my answer, which never comes. “I'll take my chances,” he grumbles and then kisses me. No, not kisses me. He reaches in and steals every ounce of strength I had left with his soft, strong lips. It's slow and tastes like all that I can't have and I whimper. “Emmett,” he opens his eyes and sucks as he slowly pulls away, “you may have just been the death of me anyway.”

“Sawyer, I—”

“You what?” he husks out, face still very close to mine.

“I need this job,” I whisper, staring straight into his eyes, hoping like hell mine are conveying to him all I can’t say. “I'm sorry and not sorry at the same time, but that can’t happen again.”

“Why not?”

“The fact that I work for you should be reason enough. The other pertinent tidbit, the fact that I barely know you, should excuse me from any other explanations, not that I’m even saying there are any.”

“There are.” He sounds positive; smart guy.

“Maybe.” I again try to plead with my gaze only for him to leave it be.