Page 8 of Big Trouble

Winnie’s take away: I shouldn’t google Brody Calahan searching for gossip about his baby momma. Which is a moot point, since I don’t find anything good anyway.

Winnie

I may or may not be fired. I don’t know, because Broody-Brody – shit!, Mr. Callahan! – is just staring at me like I’ve started speaking a foreign language.

Since he doesn’t respond, I keep ranting.

“You can’t fire me without recourse. I know I haven’t done anything to violate my contract. I haven’t tried to engage you in whimsical play. I haven’t adopted or rescued any pets. I haven’t touched your pickles. And I sure as hell haven’t “invaded” your personal space.” I tick off each stipulation with my fingers.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish trying to breathe on land.

“You haven’t what?”

“Invaded. Your. Personal. Space.” I bite off each word, poking at the air, closing in on him, so that I am, in fact, in his personal space and poking him in the chest by the time I finish.

We’re inches apart now, and I’m suddenly aware of how much bigger he is than me.

Dang it, he may be the biggest man I’ve met up close and in person. And here I am jabbing his chest with my pointer finger. And here he is letting me do it. Just looking down at me with brown eyes that are unexpectedly warm and … maybe amused?

I’m just about to back off … (who am I kidding? I’m about to retreat.) … when he snatches my hand and holds it between us.

“That hurts,” he says softly, almost as though he’s musing to himself. Then his gaze meets mine again, and he asks, “What did you say about my …” A frown mars that perfect brow of his. “... my pickles?”

I pull my hand from his and stiffen my shoulders. “Clementine said you fired one of your nannies for trying to eat your pickles. And I haven’t stolen any of your pickles. Or even touched them. And frankly, I think your obsession with fermented foods is a bit weird.”

My tirade trails off on the last few words, because … is he blushing?

Maybe?

It’s hard to tell with so much of his face covered by that scruffy beard of his.

Suddenly disconcerted that I was touching him at all, I shove my hands into my back pockets and take a step back. “Because actually, I think you’re in my personal space,” I finish lamely.

“Just make sure you follow the contract,” he says.

“Oh, I can follow the contract because I can read. A skill I’m unsure if you yourself have, since you are currently in violation of one of the stipulations.”

“Oh yeah, which one?”

“You’re in my personal bedroom.”

His lips quirk. “That stipulation only prevents you from entering my personal bedroom.”

“Okay, well, I need you to just stay out of my personal… everything.”

His gaze slides down my body so slowly it feels like an actual touch. Then that stupid, perfect jawline of his ticks. “That won’t be a problem.” He turns around and leaves my space.

My phone pings almost immediately, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s a text from my older sister, Wren, and immediately, I’m smiling again. She recently married the one who got away. Technically, they got married to prevent her nasty former in-laws from pursuing custody of her son.

But I’ve known for years that she and Liam belong together.

WREN: He made me come!

ME: WHAT?!

ME: Details, woman.

WREN: In the hotel room last night. We were making out, and I was sitting on his lap.