Contingency Plan (Blackbridge Security #3) - Marie James Page 0,15
is clearly in the negative-attention-is-better-than-no-attention camp, and doing the same would only backfire on me.
I settle on having a calm, adult conversation with her about her actions, and although that makes me feel like a school guidance counselor, I think it’s the best way to get past it and move on.
As the cab pulls up outside the house, I have the money ready to pay the astronomical fee as well as the tip. Bet your ass I’ll be adding this cab ride as well as the ridiculously overpriced pedicures Remington skipped out on this morning to the itemized bill when I submit for expenses.
I knew she was home. Booker said as much, but it still stuns me to find her standing in the kitchen, facing the counter with one foot propped on the inside of the other knee like she’s practicing a yoga move while making something to eat. Then again, maybe it’s the tiny tank top revealing the tantalizing strip of skin on her back and shorts short enough to tease the curve of her ass cheeks. Somehow, even though all of her most intimate parts are covered up, she’s sexier like this than half-naked in a bikini.
No. Not sexy. She isn’t sexy. I don’t find her sexy at all. Annoying is what she is. She’s trouble, too much work, and a brat.
I clear my throat when she doesn’t turn around despite the fact I know she knows someone is here. The alarm system beeps when the front and back doors are opened, so she had to have been alerted.
“Are you hungry?” she asks without turning around. “I was just making myself a snack. I imagine you’re starving. Jail food is horrible.”
Her teasing almost makes me smile, but I clench my jaw to prevent it at the last second. I wasn’t even at the police station long enough to be arraigned much less be offered a meal, and she damn well knows it. I’ve seen her history. She’s no stranger to the inside of a jail cell either. If I’m not mistaken, she’s been taken in at least a half dozen times.
“I’m good, thanks.”
I wait until she’s done spreading cream cheese on slices of cucumber, all the while wondering if the healthy snack is something she wants or something to counterbalance the dinner-plate-sized pita pocket she had earlier.
I take a seat in the kitchen nook, a small area I’m sure staff use more than anyone else. Surprisingly, when she’s done, she doesn’t disappear up to her room but sits across from me.
I only look at her once, and after finding her watching me as she swipes her delicate finger through cream cheese before licking it off like she’s teasing a cock, I keep my focus across the room.
“Why did you pull that shit today?”
She shrugs, and it’s an answer I expect from her. I’m beginning to think she has issues with impulse control.
“Why did you come home?”
She shrugs again, and I begin to reconsider my stance on shaking some sense into her.
“Running is no fun when I’m not being chased.” She pops a full slice of cucumber into her mouth, and her struggle to chew draws all of my attention.
“It’s dangerous. How’s your leg?”
Without hesitation, she lifts her leg, swinging it out from under the small table and drapes it across the top. A small bandage adorns her kneecap, but it doesn’t detract from the silkiness of her tanned skin.
“It’s fine. Just a little scrape. Were you worried about me?”
“I have a job to do.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
I frown, leaning back in the chair and crossing my arms over my chest.
“That!” she hisses, pointing at me. “That’s all you ever do. Why are you always so damn serious? Do you ever let loose? Have fun?”
I slowly blink at her. I doubt there’s a single thing I could say to make her stop acting recklessly.
“Do you want to play strip poker?”
My frown deepens, but it’s mostly in disappointment of the lower half of me that thinks the suggestion is the best idea in the world.
“Does anything ever penetrate that cool and calm demeanor of yours?” I don’t say a word. “Do you even smile when you come?”
She drops her leg from the table, then stands, but she doesn’t grab her dirty dish and I swear I’m going to teach her some manners if she walks away from this table and leaves that plate for someone to clean up after her.
“How often do you laugh?” She leans in closer, and