Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(35)

“She has no idea how you look at her, though.”

“I don’t look…” I shake my head and blow out a breath, impatient not with him, but with myself. “I barely know the woman.”

“True, which is why I think we’re here.”

I can’t win in this conversation, and the last thing I want to do is examine whether Bolt’s assessment has any merit.

“Sorry to interrupt,” a young woman says, appearing beside me. “Excuse me, Mr. Bell.”

She’s average height and has golden-brown locs gathered into an elegant chignon. She’s slim thick and when she speaks, every word is perfectly articulated but seems to lean, each syllable taking its time in her Southern drawl. Polished with an edge is how I’d describe her.

“And you are?” Bolt asks, lifting one imperious brow.

“Ms. Barry’s assistant.” She tilts her head in a way that suggests she believes it’s none of his business. “I’m Skipper.”

“That’s your adult name?” Bolt asks, rude even for him.

“That’s your adult bow tie?” She bristles. “And, yes, Skipper is my government name.”

“Didn’t we speak on the phone about arrangements for this event?” Bolt demands, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, let me see.” Skipper touches her chin. “Rude, bougie, unpleasant—yeah, that conversation is coming back to me. I believe I hung up on you.”

“You were incompetent, I recall,” Bolt says. “Sent the wrong address for the event.”

“No, as I tried explaining, but you wouldn’t listen, there was a change of venue,” she corrects, her smile at him a rictus of contempt as she turns her attention very pointedly back to me. “As I was saying, Mr. Bell.”

She pauses to sniff dismissively in Bolt’s direction. The more annoyed she becomes with Bolt, the deeper her drawl becomes.

“I’m Hendrix’s executive assistant. I wanted to make sure you have everything you need.”

“I think I’m good,” I say, making my voice extra pleasant to atone for Bolt’s rudeness. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Oh, then I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Hendrix says from the door leading back into the ballroom.

It’s our first time being face-to-face since Miami, and my senses are instantly on alert.

“I was just making sure Mr. Bell didn’t need anything,” Skipper says, leveling a disdainful glance on Bolt. “Since it seems he may have inadequate personal support.”

“I’m inadequate?” Bolt practically spits, taking a step closer to Skipper. “You strike me as the kind of woman who gets the word of the day in her email, but can only handle one a week without confusing maturation and masturbation.”

“Funny you mention masturbation,” Skipper fires back, taking a step closer to Bolt, standing a few inches above him and leaving little space between them. “Since you strike me as a man who has no other options.”

“Skipper!” Hendrix’s horrified gaze bounces from her assistant to mine. She looks as mystified as I am by the escalating tension between our staff.

“Oh, it’s fine, Ms. Barry,” Bolt says. “I would expect no more from a woman whose namesake is a character from Gilligan’s Island.”

“It was Barbie’s sister, dickhead,” Skipper snaps, before turning to Hendrix. “Sorry. You know I don’t do well with lower life-forms.”

And she storms off.

Hendrix and I both look to Bolt who, for some inexplicable reason, starts after her, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in ten.”

I stare after his departing figure, shoulders held tight and his gait stiff and yet… eager?

“Bolt’s never behaved that way,” I say, almost apologetically.

“Skipper’s usually the most even-tempered woman you’d ever meet.” Hendrix pauses to narrow her eyes. “Why do I feel like we just witnessed some kind of hostile mating ritual?”

“You think they’re smashing right now?”

“Oh, a hundred percent.”

Our gazes tangle and laughter erupts from us both.

“It was like an episode of Will & Grace,” she says. “Kind of Karen and Beverley Leslie, but with prickly sexual vibes.”

“I’ve never seen Will & Grace,” I admit. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’ve never seen…” Her dark eyes go wide, the feathery false lashes nearly brushing her brows. “Oh you gotta watch. It’s a classic.”

“One of your favorites?”

“Well, yes. Not the favorite, but one of them.”

“What’s the favorite?”

“Wow. That’s tough.” She kicks off one shoe and wiggles her toes. “Don’t look at my feet. I didn’t have time for a pedicure.”

I glance down.

“What did I just say?” She chokes out a laugh. “Don’t look at my feet.”

She tucks the bare foot behind her ankle, effectively hiding it, but not before I’ve seen the dark, chipped polish. It’s a pretty foot with a high arch. The tiny imperfection makes me feel like I’ve gotten a glimpse behind a gilded curtain—not just the polish on her toes, but the polish on her. That I’ve seen something real, authentic.