Page 33 of The Right Sign
He leans forward, erasing just a bit of space between us.
Immediately, the air feels charged.
“I’m really curious,” his interpreter signs, “if you’re this arrogant because of your family connections or if your attitude is a defense mechanism.”
“What. Do. You. Want?” I scrunch both hands like I’m squeezing a ball at chest-level.
His mouth moves, eyes glinting.
“Answers,” his interpreter signs.
I hold my breath.
“Are you single?”
The world flickers out of focus for a second. I blink rapidly, sure I understood wrong. Maybe his interpreter went rogue?
My eyes shoot up to Jenny.
She pulls her lips into her mouth, looking uncomfortable.
Finally, I sign, “Why is that any of your business?”
Richard Sullivanmustbe listening to Jenny interpret, and yet his eyes don’t leave mine for a second. I’ve always been taught it’s impolite to stare, but I guess that lesson wasn’t conveyed to Mr. Sullivan. Perhaps it got lost in all the millions he inherited.
Prickles of heat billow under my skin as he assesses me.
I swallow.
He smirks.
I swallow harder.
His smile gets a little wider.
I swallow again and hope he doesn’t unleash a centimeter more of his roguish grin because then I’ll be out of saliva.
Richard Sullivan speaks.
“The ruffian you brought to the wedding,” his interpreter signs, “do you have any sort of romantic relationship with him?”
Ruffian?
An undercurrent of tension sweeps through the table.
Beside me, Jenny shuffles her feet.
Behind him, his team of professionals all look down at the ground. The one at his right hand, a man with tan skin and wavy silver hair, seems especially concerned.
Sullivan turns his head slightly to the side and moves his lips.
“Everyone leave,” his interpreter signs.
The crowd moves on command. In less than a minute, we’re alone except for his assistant and the interpreters. Sullivan nods to the man who stayed behind. The assistant walks over to my side of the table and drops a binder.
Fingers trembling, I open the folder.
It’s a business proposal.