Melissa
DEAN jokes that we need champagne, not the chipped mugs of coffee we clink in my tiny cramped kitchen. He tells me he’s happy for me, that it’s a job well done, says that maybe they’ll give me a pay rise big enough to make up for the extra bazillion stairs I’ll be climbing up every day to get to floor sixteen.
He looks good today, his cropped hair a dark shadow, his brows heavy over bright blue eyes. A tight white tee under a loose checked shirt. Torn jeans and bare feet. Bare feet always look good on a man.
It’s when Dean says he’s happy for me for the tenth time that I know something’s up.
It’s in his smile.
Tense.
More like a grimace as he raises his mug. Again.
I put mine down on the draining board. “What is it?”
He shrugs and the smile doesn’t even flinch. “What’s what
