Reasonable Doubt: Volume 1 (Reasonable Doubt, #1)(16)

“Where have you been for the past two weeks?” it said. “Are you okay? I’ve called and texted you and you haven’t said anything. I’m really concerned...If you get this, say something, anything. ”


I didn’t want to respond, but with the taste of her mouth still lingering on my lips, I gave in. “I’m fine. Just made a major discovery not too long ago and I’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with it.”

“Is it something serious?”

“VERY serious.”

“I’m sorry...Want to know something that will make you feel better?”

“I doubt anything you say can do that right now.”

“Want to bet?”

“Try me.”

“My boss just kissed the shit out of me. I think that’s why he’s so damn mean to me; he wants to f*ck me...”

“I really don’t think your ‘boss’ wants to f*ck you...”

“He definitely does. His cock was rock hard when he was kissing me, and he was biting my lips and gripping me like he wanted to own me... I’ve never been so wet in my life...”

I hesitated. “How exactly is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“I was pretending he was you the whole time. I miss you.”

I immediately turned off my phone. I didn’t know what type of shit she was trying to pull, but I wasn’t falling for it.

“I was pretending it was you? I miss you?” Bullshit.

I wasn’t going to answer her calls or her messages for a long time. Sexy ass mouth or not.





Cross Examination (n.):


The interrogation of a witness called by one’s opponent.

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Aubrey

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I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Mr. Hamilton kissed me the other day, the way he pulled me against his chest and f*cked my lips with his mouth.

Thoughts of him kissing me had been invading my mind all day, and even now, when I was setting down his latest cup of coffee, I was tempted to walk behind his desk and dare him to kiss me again. Ever since I’d become his intern, he’d been quite mean to me—reckless, but I thought it was a training technique, a way to see if I’d quit under pressure.

Until he kissed me that day.

There was something intangible in his kiss; unspoken words, a repressed desire. It made me think that the glances he often tossed my way, those looks of scorn that were laced with wanting, meant a little more.

I placed a plastic stirrer into his cup and cleared my throat. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Hamilton?”

No answer.

I stood my ground and waited for him to look up at me; I wanted to see his face.

The suit he was wearing today—a dark grey three piece with a silver silk tie, made him look even more devastatingly beautiful than he normally did.

“Is there a problem, Miss Everhart?” He clenched his fists above the desk, trying his best to act like my presence wasn’t bothering him. But it was, I could tell.

I knew he would look up at any moment, so I stepped back, making sure the light blue dress I wore specifically for him would be in full view, but he kept his gaze lowered.

“No, sir.”

“Then get out of my office. I’ll need your Brownstein report with my next cup of coffee. Four o’ clock.”

“You just gave me that report yesterday. You said I could take all the time I needed.”

“You must’ve misheard me. You can take all the time you need today. Things change instantly around here, and that’s the exact reason why some of us never leave early. Four o’ clock.”

I stood there completely speechless. There was no way I’d be able to read and summarize a three hundred paged report by the end of the day.

“Did you lose some of your hearing between today and yesterday?” He finally looked up, his perfect face expressionless. “I need complete silence when I work and I can’t focus with your heavy breathing.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Get out, finish the report, and bring it back to me with my coffee. If you don’t, you’re fired.”

I quickly decided that he was bipolar, and that our seemingly connected kiss was just a mistake. I turned around and left his office, rushing straight to the break room.

There was no way I was going to get that Brownstein report done by the end of the day.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my messages—realizing that Thoreau hadn’t responded to my morning texts. Sighing, I decided to call him. I needed someone to tell me that my life wouldn’t end today when I was fired.

It rang once.

It rang twice.

It went to voicemail.

He hit ignore?!

I sent him a text. “What the hell is wrong with you lately? Is your lack of sex forcing you to act like a jerk toward me? Is the withdrawal THAT BAD? Talk to me.”

I waited for a response, but none came, so I slumped onto the couch. There was no point in even attempting to finish that report. I was just going to sit here, relax, and when it was five o’ clock I was going to collect all of my things and leave.

I could find another internship in two weeks, or worst case, ask the department chair if I could shadow my mother and father around their stuffy firm for credit.