Honor

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

E vie

“You’re bleeding, Miss Starling,” Mr. Hunt says without a hint of concern in his voice.

“What?” I more than make up for it in my shocked response. I swear every person in this office building just heard me yell. “Where?”

One of his long fingers skims his smooth jawline. “Right there.”

Since I didn’t trip and do a face-plant on the sidewalk on my way back to the office, and a rogue seagull didn’t attack me as I hurriedly ate my lunch, I know it’s not blood.

It’s ketchup.

Goddamn this day all to hell.

“Take care of it,” he says, as though the apparent red streak on my chin is more of a nuisance to him than it is to me. “Now.”

“I will,” I assure him as I imagine what it would feel like to poke a finger into one of his blue eyes.

“The definition of now is this minute.” He taps the watch on his wrist.

It’s just another ridiculously overpriced accessory to him. When I was at his apartment earlier, I counted all of the watches in the two-tiered display case he keeps them in. My initial guess was short by four. With the addition of the one he’s wearing, that brings the grand total to thirty-five.

Who needs that many watches?

“It’s an Abdons watch.” He pushes the sleeve of his jacket up to show it off.

“ I don’t care ,” I scream inside, but there’s no outward evidence of that since I remain silent with a fake smile on my ketchup stained face.

“The blood is drying.” He points at my chin yet again. “Remove it and send me the file for the Eckert deal.”

“Okay.” I start to round my desk because the employee bathroom is down the corridor.

“Wait.” He stops me with a hand to my elbow.

A charge of awareness races through me from head to toe. It’s so unexpected that I stumble to the side.

His grip on me tightens, luring my gaze up to meet his.

For a total jerk, he really is a smokeshow.

“Send the file before you take care of that.” His gaze drops to my lips and beyond to the splash of red on my chin that he keeps referring to.

His smokeshow status just extinguished itself.

I have no doubt that if I stabbed myself with the silver letter opener on my desk, he’d make me wait to call an ambulance until I forwarded all of the incoming calls on the office line to my cell phone.

Tugging my arm free, I step back behind my desk, open the file he wants on my laptop, and send it to him in an email with the subject line: Eckert File Attached.

I know better than to send an email without a subject line.

I got that lecture one morning a few months ago when I prematurely pressed send on an email directed to him.

Since that debacle, I have always double-checked that the subject line serves its purpose so my boss doesn’t toss me a death stare when he opens his inbox.

“Sent,” I announce too loudly. “I’ll go take care of my face now.”

His gaze lingers on my lips for a beat too long before his eyes lock with mine. “How was the hotdog, Miss Starling?”

A smile slides over my lips. “Fine.”

“I just noticed a small dot of yellow in the middle of the red streak. That gave it away,” he explains. “Mustard and ketchup?”

I nod. “With a bag of potato chips on the side.”

I have no idea why I dictated my lunch order to the man. He likely dined on the best sushi in the city for lunch or a big rare steak.

“You’ve stirred up a craving in me,” he says in a low tone.

My lips part slightly, but how the hell do I respond to that? He has to be talking about hot dogs, not me, right?

“Go grab me a hot dog after you wipe your face clean,” he snaps, answering my question about what he yearns for. “There’s a restaurant in Greenwich Village called Pickled Dish. Order the number twelve. It comes with a homemade roll, spicy mustard, and garlic aioli.”

What the what?

I have to go back out in the baking heat to get this guy a hot dog? Has he never heard of delivery? This is Manhattan. You can have a package of gum delivered for a nominal fee.

“Why don’t I have it delivered?” I shoot my shot because I need to be off my feet for more than the twenty minutes I scored before he showed up to point out that I’m a messy eater.

He looks at me like my hair is on fire. “Delivery?”

“Yes.” I nod enthusiastically. “It’s when a person orders something…could be food or anything really, and someone brings it to them.”

I swear the corners of his lips edge up toward a smile before he halts that and glares at me. “I know what delivery is, Miss Starling. Your contract clearly states that you are to handle everything I request of you, so go get me that hot dog. Now.”

“Right.” I paste on a sickeningly sweet smile. “I’m on it, Mr. Hunt.”

I don’t bother waiting for a thank you or any sign of appreciation because I don’t have an eternity to spare. I scoop my purse back up, grab my phone off my desk, and dart around him.

“Ogre,” I whisper as I head toward the employee bathroom. “I hope you choke on your hot dog.”