Page 41 of Can't Get Enough

“I’m Hendrix’s executive assistant. I wanted to make sure you have everythingyouneed.”

“I think I’m good,” I say, making my voice extra pleasant to atone for Bolt’s rudeness. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Oh, then I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Hendrix says from the door leading back into the ballroom.

It’s our first time being face-to-face since Miami, and my senses are instantly on alert.

“I was just making sure Mr. Bell didn’t need anything,” Skipper says, leveling a disdainful glance on Bolt. “Since it seems he may have inadequate personal support.”

“I’minadequate?” Bolt practically spits, taking a step closer to Skipper. “You strike me as the kind of woman who gets the word of the day in her email, but can only handle one a week without confusing maturation and masturbation.”

“Funny you mention masturbation,” Skipper fires back, taking a step closer to Bolt, standing a few inches above him and leaving little space between them. “Since you strike me as a man who has no other options.”

“Skipper!” Hendrix’s horrified gaze bounces from her assistant to mine. She looks as mystified as I am by the escalating tension between our staff.

“Oh, it’s fine, Ms. Barry,” Bolt says. “I would expect no more from a woman whose namesake is a character fromGilligan’s Island.”

“It was Barbie’s sister, dickhead,” Skipper snaps, before turning to Hendrix. “Sorry. You know I don’t do well with lower life-forms.”

And she storms off.

Hendrix and I both look to Bolt who, for some inexplicable reason, starts after her, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in ten.”

I stare after his departing figure, shoulders held tight and his gait stiff and yet… eager?

“Bolt’s never behaved that way,” I say, almost apologetically.

“Skipper’s usually the most even-tempered woman you’d ever meet.” Hendrix pauses to narrow her eyes. “Why do I feel like we just witnessed some kind of hostile mating ritual?”

“You think they’re smashing right now?”

“Oh, a hundred percent.”

Our gazes tangle and laughter erupts from us both.

“It was like an episode ofWill & Grace,” she says. “Kind of Karen and Beverley Leslie, but with prickly sexual vibes.”

“I’ve never seenWill & Grace,” I admit. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’ve never seen…” Her dark eyes go wide, the feathery false lashes nearly brushing her brows. “Oh you gotta watch. It’s a classic.”

“One of your favorites?”

“Well, yes. Notthefavorite, but one of them.”

“What’sthefavorite?”

“Wow. That’s tough.” She kicks off one shoe and wiggles her toes. “Don’t look at my feet. I didn’t have time for a pedicure.”

I glance down.

“What did I just say?” She chokes out a laugh. “Don’t look at my feet.”

She tucks the bare foot behind her ankle, effectively hiding it, but not before I’ve seen the dark, chipped polish. It’s a pretty foot with a high arch. The tiny imperfection makes me feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse behind a gilded curtain—not just the polish on her toes, but the polish onher. That I’ve seen something real, authentic.

“Hmmmm.” She tilts her head back. “All-time favorite may beThe Wire.”

“Ohhhhh,” I say approvingly, leaning one elbow on the balcony railing. “Good taste. You likeTop Boy, too?”

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