What a relief. She was doing nothing wrong. Weird, but not wrong.
“The lunchroom is two doors down,” he said, controlling his breathing so she wouldn’t know he’d sprinted up here like an idiot.
She wrapped up her sandwich and threw her purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I guess I’m not supposed to have food in here. I just wanted some privacy. Beverly always comes in when I’m in my office.”
He closed the door quietly behind him, trying not to spook her any more than he already had with his guns-blazing entry. God, he felt like a dick. “It’s fine.” He noticed her eyes flit to the door behind him. “Do you want me to open it? I closed it because you did and I assumed you didn’t want anyone else in the office knowing you were in here eating.”
She placed the sandwich back on the table and unwrapped it. “I’m good either way.”
He slid into the chair opposite her. She made no move to resume her lunch. Instead, she kept her eyes on her sandwich, which gave him the opportunity to openly stare at her. Her gold hair reminded him of midday sunshine. Not the rays from hell like he endured in the desert—but the kind of sunshine that made him want to close his eyes and tilt his head back to get more of it. More of her was exactly what he wanted, which was troubling on several fronts, both personal and professional. Still, despite the best logic in the world telling him to back down, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Just like yesterday in her office, he was at war with himself.
The only indication of her state of mind was the twitching of her pinky fingers. She was uncomfortable. Well, of course she was—he’d really fucked up, not only by blasting in here and startling her, but by pushing her so hard in her office yesterday. “Look, Claire. I’m sorry I came on so strong yesterday. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Her eyes met his. “I liked it,” she said, barely above a whisper. She smoothed the paper flat around her sandwich. “Loved it, actually.”
The breathy sound of her voice made his whole body stand at attention before his brain even had time to process her words. I liked it. He’d liked it, too. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. He hadn’t blown it after all. There was that honesty again. He was attracted to this quality about her even more than her ass, and her ass was pretty fucking spectacular. “Yet you turned down my offer for lunch.”
A slight smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, and all other things implied.”
“Why?”
“Fear.”
“Of?”
“Everything.” She fiddled with the corner of the sandwich wrapper.
That was a completely unexpected exchange. Raw and real, but a little too vague. They were right on the edge of something, teetering before either pulling back or falling off completely. He remained still, hoping she’d go on without prompting.
“Do you want some of this sandwich?” she asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
“Sure.”
After placing both halves on one side, she ripped the wrapper in half, then put part of the sandwich on it and slid it to him.
Still, he sat silently and waited. She seemed to want to tell him more but didn’t know how. He had seen this dozens of times with the men in his unit. Honesty needed to be given, not forced. Sometimes, though, it could be coaxed. “You were talking about fear,” he prompted before digging into the sandwich. The fact that she wasn’t trying to get rid of him, knowing he was one of the owners of the company, boded well for her innocence. No way was this girl the spy.
She took a bite and chewed for a moment before answering. “Yeah. Well, I’ve taken care of people my whole life, pretty much. Now all those people are gone. For the first time ever, I’m free.”
“So you turned down my offer for lunch because…?”
Her eyes shot up to his. “Because I’d reached my all-time record number of Claire-isms for the day and the earth might have exploded if I committed another.”
“Claire-ism?”
She ate a bite of yogurt and nodded. “Yeah. When something goes massively wrong or especially when something is embarrassing, my friend Heather calls it a Claire-ism. I’m forever doing odd or embarrassing things.”
“Your skirt ripping was a Claire-ism.”
“A prime example. So was spilling my purse.”
He nodded. “So how does that relate to my lunch offer?”
“That had massive Claire-ism potential.”
He smiled—he found himself doing that constantly around her—and took another bite of the roast beef sandwich. “In what regard?”