Page 89 of Bossy Romance
And sweet.
And it makes my heart ache.
My eyes move to Adam on instinct and I wonder…
Gah! No wondering.
I shake my head and scold myself.Why are you looking at your boss, Nova? Yes, he’s handsome. Yes, you work well together. But that’s all it is. A work relationship. Stop giving him heart eyes.
Adam sees me staring and slants me that attentive look of his that makes my pulse beat faster.
“You want something?” he asks.
You, the feral cat in my head purrs.I want you, Adam.
Now I know I’m exhausted because I hate cats and it turns out there’s one inside me that wants to sink its claws into my boss.
I slide my chair back and it creaks. “The bathroom.”
Sunny pins her almond-shaped brown eyes at me. “It’s right inside.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Pushing away from the table, I pass Sazuki and Dejonae. Dejonae catches my eye and gives me a friendly smile.
I nod in return and head inside.
Everyone’s so warm with each other, but they haven’t been saying much to me. I’m grateful for it. I really am. But it’s weird. They seem like a close-knit bunch with a habit of absorbing newcomers into their group.
I thought they’d be worse than frantic students cramming for an exam, trying to learn everything about me.
Why are they holding back?
I finish with the bathroom, wash my hands and walk slowly down the hall, anything to keep me away from Adam for a bit longer. There’s movement in the kitchen and I peer that way.
An older woman is dancing as she bakes something. She’s wearing two grey pigtails, an embroidered skirt and Belize-themed oven mitts. As she opens the oven, she peers inside and shakes her head.
The smell from the kitchen lures me closer. I don’t have any room in my stomach, not even to cram in a mint, and yet I can’t resist the fragrance of chocolate chip cookies.
“Hey there.” Her eyes sparkle at me when I get closer. Deep wrinkles spread from the edges of her eyes. Her skin is a reddish-brown tone and reminds me of the clay my mother used in her garden.
“Hi.” I nod politely.
“Would you like something, sweetie? Another tortilla? Or some wine?”
“I’m full.” I touch my stomach. “But everything was delicious.”
She grins. “It was nice watching you enjoy the food. I haven’t seen anyone get that excited about tortillas.”
“Oh.” I self-consciously rub the back of my neck.
“If you’d like the recipe, I can give it to you. The way we make tortillas in Belize is a little different than in other parts of the world.”
“I’m not great in the kitchen,” I admit.
That’s the polite version.
The real version goes something like:All I can make is pasta. Anything more complicated is a disaster.