Page 6 of Bottles & Blades

“Mr. Dubois?”

I turn to my assistant. “Thank you, Marie.”

She holds out the checkbook—along with the pen I didn’t ask her to bring, but she did because there’s a reason she’s the head of my executive assistant team—then her gaze flicks down. “I could have brought the change of clothes.”

Since that seems more like she’s making a mental note rather than passing the tidbit along, I just thank her for the checkbook and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow for the Duarte meeting. Did you already send over the notes for me to review?”

“Yes.” She mentions a few more things about my schedule, but I cut her off before she really gets going.

“We can have a check-in later today if you have anything else for me.”

I know she picks up on the finality of my tone because her mouth kicks up.

But instead of going right away—because although Marie is exceptionally good at what she does (I wouldn’t hire anyone who isn’t), she also has a nose for gossip and is beyond curious—she cuts her eyes to the side, lifts her brows in question.

“That will be all, Marie. Thank you.”

Her nose wrinkles at the dismissal, but because she picks up on the extra dose of finality I’ve injected into my words, she just nods and says, “We’ll talk later today.”

The corner of my mouth tips up.

Because I don’t miss the finality in her tone either.

Three

Tiff

I’m getting backinto the car with my kidnapper.

And I can still feel the imprint of his fingers wrapped around my wrist.

“Up you go,” he mutters, opening the truck door and hefting me into the passenger’s seat with all the aplomb of lifting a bag of rocks.

I glance down at him. “I?—”

But he slams the door shut before I finish.

Then I’m watching him walk away again, this time in my side mirror, as he strides behind the back of the trunk, disappearing, meaning I miss out on those piercing blue eyes, the dark hair with the hint of silver at his temples, the stubble clinging to a strong jaw.

His door opens, drawing my gaze, and I’m surprised again at the strength of him.

He’s older than me—or at least, that’s what the gray in his hair and beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes tell me—but he’s in better shape than most of the guys I’ve seen on campus. The muscles on his forearms stand out in sharp relief, his biceps pushing at the hems of his T-shirt sleeves. Not to mention, his flat stomach and strong thighs and?—

“I like the look in your eyes, buttercup,” he murmurs, “but unless you stop, your groceries are going to go bad.”

I suck in a breath so quickly that I choke on my own spit.

And I’m rewarded for it.

Which makes no sense, but it’s the first thing I think of when his big palm settles on my back and he strokes gently, up and down, up and down, up and?—

“Drink,” he orders quietly, holding up a bottle of water.

My throat settles, and I accept the bottle of water he passes me, drinking deeply, mostly so I have something to do that isn’t staring at this beautiful man next to me.

“Okay?”

I nod.

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