Page 32 of Kneel with the King
The voice takes me by surprise, and I turn around to see Asher standing by the back door, adjusting his dress shirt like he just left the bathroom behind him.
“Not while anyone can see me. Wouldn’t want them to think I had emotions. It’s not part of the job description, you see.”
That makes his mouth tic up into an easy smile. “Point made.”
To my utter surprise and horror, he takes a seat next to me. I stiffen, trying to subtly push my beer away without him noticing.
“It’s fine. You’re twenty-one, right?” he says, smirking and clinking his glass of whiskey with my beer.
“Yeah. Twenty-one,” I repeat, sipping the bitter liquid slowly and pretending this isn’t the weirdest thing to ever happen.
Asher Harrison is a legend in our office. Strategic Implementation Senior Manager is his official title. I hardly ever work with him directly, but I do process his expense reports. He’s the only one who gets them to me on time, so I’ve taken notice of him—among other reasons.
My eyes flick to his ring finger, which is bare.
Not that it matters. The guy next to me is probably as straight as a straw of hay.
“So, how are you enjoying the internship? You’ve been here for a few months, right?”
I nod. “Yup. Four months next week.”
“You want to go into finance? Or is this just a stop before you go somewhere… more fun?” he asks. I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Yeah, hopefully. I’d like to open my own firm one day.”
“Maybe you will. One day,” he adds, smiling.
I know I’m not imagining the fact that his knee just brushed mine under the bar.
It’s hard not to dissect every single word out of his mouth—every single movement.
Every glance.
His eyes dip to my lips—so briefly that I tell myself I’m seeing things.
“How oldareyou?” he asks, his voice low. Playful. Is he…flirting?
“Nineteen.”
He nods and then he laughs, looking away. “So much life ahead of you. Don’t waste it.”
“I don’t intend to,” I tell him firmly.
He glances at me again, this time longer. There’s something unreadable in his expression.
Like he’s debating whether or not to ask me something.
“God, nineteen,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “You remind me of myself at nineteen. Always so sure of everything. Like the world hasn’t had the chance to wear you down yet.”
I tilt my head and finish my beer. I don’t really drink, so it makes my head feel fuzzy.
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
He huffs a laugh. “Bit of both, I suppose.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but I do, blurting out exactly what I’m thinking. “You don’t seem all that worn down. You’re… what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-seven,” he answers, taking a sip of his drink and setting his glass down a little too hard. “It’s just good angles,” he answers. “Good genes, too.”
