Page 27 of Dirty Martini
Suddenly, my brain calls back the last time we spoke, that violent interaction where he practically broke my nose. I had lost my shit, getting all over him, invading his space, just to prove a point. And what I’ve beenreallytrying to forget was his reaction to it.
He got hard.
So unbearably hard that I almost felt bad for him. I can still vividly remember his flushed face, the way his pupils dilated, the breathy little huffs he let out as I pressed against him. At the moment, I was just shocked. I didn’t know what to say or what to do, so I just ignored it. But something stirred inside me at the sight of him like that, completely at my mercy, his body obviously begging for something he didn’t know. It was almost like…
I shake my head, banishing all thoughts of Everest and his firm, warm body underneath mine and cut the mangos, slicing them perfectly, giving all my focus to making sure my lines are clean and precise.
Because if not, I’m afraid of what I might find in my own head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Everest
I am an absolute idiot.
Well, maybe not an idiot, but I’m definitely not bright. That much has been made exceedingly clear in the last hour and a half. As I stare down at my homework, absolutely stuck, I ask myself why I ever signed up forIntroduction to Accounting. I don’t like math, nor do I want to be an accountant. I just got so flustered when it was time to come up with my summer semester schedule, I panicked. I think I might have ended up picking the first classes I saw because there’s no other explanation why I’m suffering through this.
The rest of my classes are okay. It’s a lot of work—more than I expected I would have—and the panic that rises every time I check the online portal and see another assignment is enough to land me on my ass.
I’m in the kitchen, considering whether a ‘W’ would look terrible on my college transcript, when Rhys waltzes in looking absolutely edible. His sweats are hanging low on his hips and he’s wearing that stupid fucking backward baseball cap. And because there really isn’t a God, he’s shirtless, and I can see all the muscles of his back flex as he heads to the fridge. Whenhe turns around, I quickly duck my head so it’s not completely obvious that I was checking him out.
I focus on my homework andalmostget it, when a throat clears and draws my attention away.
“What are you doing?”
I think that my jaw drops. Is Rhys willingly speaking to me? Things have been an entire new level of uncomfortable since I headbutted him. No huge altercations have happened, but it’s been tense, nonetheless. I’ve been waiting for some kind of retaliation, tiptoeing around the penthouse as if he’d pop out any second to attack me. I can see the evidence of our last blowout still on his face, a deep bruise that’s yellowing on the bridge of his nose.
“You going to say anything?”
I realize I’m just gaping at him and shut my mouth. Clearing my throat, I gesture at the obvious. “Homework.”
“And because I'm not a dumbass, I know that,” he quips with an eye roll. “Can you be more specific?”
“It’s for my accounting class,” I explain, breathing through my nose to call back some patience. This is the first conversation we’ve had where we haven’t been screaming at each other, and I don’t want to ruin it. Still, I can’t help my smart mouth. “If you’re such a genius, why don’t you help me out?”
I expect him to just walk away and lose interest, so it shocks me when instead, he rounds the island and sits beside me.
“Let me see,” he mumbles, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a pair of glasses.
Holy shit.
“You wear glasses?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry as he puts them on. Jesus Christ, they’re not just any glasses. They’re thick, black-rimmed, and make him look like a porn star. Like fucking Superman.
He raises an eyebrow, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Yeah?”
“Okay,” I croak, subtly adjusting myself as he takes my textbook. He looks it over for a minute, then glances at my laptop.
“Okay.” He points at the chart on the screen. “We’re dealing with debits and credits. This question is asking you to interpret the graph.” As he leans in, his shoulder rubs mine, and my breath hitches. Is this really happening?
“So, this column is the debit and that one is the credit. You following me?”
How can I when he’s this close to me, half naked, wearing his porn glasses, and sending mixed signals to my half-hard dick?
I nod through a gulp. “Yeah.”
“So, it’s weird, because debits and credits are different in the accounting world than in the banking world.”
“Because a credit is money you have going in?” I question.
