Page 22 of Sinner (Priest 2)
Sigh.
I drop my phone into my pocket and rub at my face with both hands while I wait for the elevator. Okay, so things are not ideal right now—I’ve lied to Elijah (by omission though, that’s not so bad, right?) and promised to take care of Zenny, and now I have to go upstairs and explain to my boss why there’s not a plan in place to fix all this yet.
Sorry, Mr. Valdman, sir, it’s just that she has a really pretty mouth and a way of asking for things like kisses that I can’t resist.
Yeah, no. That’s not going to work.
The elevator doors ding open and I go inside, thinking. Clearly, I can’t trust myself around Zenny, that much is clear. And I just promised Elijah that I’d keep her safe, which almost certainly means not kissing her again.
Not begging to see her pussy like a thirsty man just craving the sight of water.
I’m a responsible human, and while I recognize that I’m what some people might call sinful and others might call an asshole, I would never force myself on a woman. I am more than capable of keeping my hands and eyes and words to myself; I’m more than capable of being around someone I desire and still acting ethically and professionally. But that’s not the problem—the problem is that Zenny asks for things and once she asks, I can’t trust myself to say no.
Because if she asks for another kiss, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to stop myself. Definitely not now, not after I’ve felt how soft and eager her mouth is, not after I’ve felt the pliant mold of her compact curves against my body. If she asked for another kiss, I’d be on her before I could even catalogue all the reasons I should refuse.
And that’s bad.
Badddddd.
By the time I get to Valdman’s office, I more or less have a plan in place. Trent the Secretary waves me inside, and I give a cursory knock on the door before I step in.
“Ah, Sean,” Valdman says. He’s in a chair by the window, flipping through a file in a manner so desultory that I’m sure he’s not actually reading anything inside, he just wanted to have something to look at while he drinks more morning scotch.
“Hi, sir.”
“How’d it go with the nuns?”
I clear my throat, trying to muster the confidence and charm that normally come so easily to me. “Nothing’s decided yet, but I saw the shelter and I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of how to handle this.”
Valdman closes the file and picks up his scotch glass. “I’m listening.”
I take a seat in the creaky leather armchair next to his. “We need to find them a new shelter. Bigger and better and at no extra cost. I don’t know if we can make it happen fast enough to get in front of the story, but it will still do a lot toward repairing the image of the firm.”
My boss nods. “And you’ve already talked with them about this?”
“No, sir. I wanted to run it by you first. But the space they are using now is cramped and shabby. If we can find them someplace bigger, nicer, someplace that photographs well and will look good on the news, then we’ll be able to salvage this.”
“I like it,” Valdman says. “So long as it doesn’t cost us any money.”
“We might need to make a small donation to grease the wheels, but I’m hoping we can find an existing property that’s suited to their needs and comes at no cost to us. I’m sure we can find a client of ours who needs the tax break and who already has a property that would work.”
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Make it happen.”
I pause. This is the tricky part. “So, sir, I was wondering if it would be possible for someone else to take point on this project. At least when it comes to interfacing with the nuns.”
Valdman looks at me. And doesn’t answer.
“I’ll still do everything else—scout the new property and liaise with Keegan and Ealey and all that. But I don’t think I’m the right person to work with the nuns themselves.”
My boss continues to study me, and I resist the urge to shift in my seat. Don’t show any weakness, I remind myself. Look confident. Look like you’re ready for another victory lap.
“You know, this is the first time in ten years that you’ve ever asked to be taken off a job,” Valdman says. “You’ve handled senators, athletes, and international beer conglomerates for me, but all of a sudden you’re losing your nerve? You’re too soft to handle a bunch of nuns?”
“I’m not too soft,” I say defensively.
“Then what is it?”
