course you are,” he said with more sarcasm than he intended.
Gloria glared, drew a deep breath and then turned away. “I’ll start on the desk,” she said with a strained calm.
Again, Malcolm’s gaze was drawn to her heavenly backside as she made her way across the room and then planted herself in his father’s old leather chair.
Instead of getting straight to work, she rechecked her safety pin.
Malcolm barely turned away in time. It wouldn’t do to continually get caught staring, but he felt her gaze rest on him. He sucked in his invisible tummy and straightened his shoulders so that she could get a good look and…what? Did he want her to like what she was seeing?
Soon her eyes trailed away and a strange, awkward silence enveloped the room. An hour passed, and Malcolm felt he’d made about as much progress as a turtle sprinting a hundred-yard dash. Periodically, Malcolm would finger his open collar or wipe at imaginary sweat beads. He continued to feel as if he was wilting beneath a desert sun, though the thermostat read a cool seventy-four degrees.
“Are you sure this thing is working?” he asked, tapping the small square box.
“It’s working,” she answered without glancing up. She, apparently, had no trouble concentrating on her work.
When Malcolm reached the bottom of the first file cabinet, he pulled open the drawer and blinked in surprise. Malcolm pulled out a glass picture frame, almost a mirror image of the one of his father at the bottom of Malcolm’s DVD cabinet—right down to the spiderweb cracks in the center. It was a picture of Malcolm graduating from Morehouse College. His father’s arms were wrapped around Malcolm’s shoulders, while his chin and chest were lifted high with pride.
A pain in his heart caused a few tears to trickle from the corners of his eyes. Here was the proof of his father’s disappointment in him. The only photo of father and son was buried in a drawer.
“It’s not what you think,” Gloria said.
Malcolm whirled around to find Gloria behind him, breaching his privacy. “How do you know what I think?”
He shoved the picture into the container and moved to the next filing cabinet.
“Your father pulled that picture out every day,” she said softly.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.
“Malcolm—”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” He slammed the top file cabinet closed.
Gloria jumped.
“I need to get some air,” he said, and stormed past her. More than anything, he was embarrassed for losing control and once again lashing out at her. But, hell, she was the only one around.
“Why don’t we stop and go get some dinner?” she suggested, striding after him and grabbing his wrist. “You need a break.”
“No. I want to hurry and get this over with,” he said. “I just need a quick breather.”
“C’mon,” she said. “You need to eat. I need to eat. Let’s just go somewhere and grab something—and we can talk.”
Talk. Couldn’t she see that was the last thing he wanted to do?
“I’m not hungry,” he lied. Just then, his stomach released a long winding growl. For a few seconds, he tried to hold on to his stern expression.
Gloria’s beautiful full lips were the first to split into a wide smile before her laughter erupted from the center of her chest.
After a few seconds, Malcolm joined her.
“Do you still like Chinese?” she asked. “There’s a nice place a few miles from here.”
He sighed, hesitating.
“It’s on me,” she added.
He chuckled. “I’ll pay.”
“I tell you what. Let’s make it Dutch,” she countered. “That way no one will mistake it for being a date.”
“A date? Me and you?” Malcolm laughed. “Trust me. No one will make that mistake.”
Chapter 4
Gloria couldn’t wait to get out of the office. Despite the spacious size, it felt as if they were literally on top of each other and walking on eggshells. Dinner, she hoped, would relax Malcolm a bit more. She needed him to loosen up in order for him to be receptive to what she had in mind.
The Bamboo House was dark when they entered. The only lighting flickered from tiny wicks nestled in small red candleholders placed in the center of each table in sconces on the walls.
“Ah, Ms. Kingsley,” Samira, the hostess, greeted her. “So nice to see you again. I’m so sorry. I read in the paper what happened to Harmon. It was a shock, no?”
Gloria nodded while the small woman grabbed hold of her hand.
“How are you?” Samira asked with genuine concern. “I know we’re definitely going to miss seeing you two in here.”
Malcolm’s gaze shot to Gloria, his brows launched high. “You and my father came here often?”
“Often?” Samira chimed. “They came here two or three times a week with their noses buried in paperwork.” Then as if finally catching what Malcolm said, Samira dropped Gloria’s hand and turned her attention toward him. “Harmon was your father?” She gazed up at him. “Ah, yes. I see the resemblance now.” Her smile turned flirtatious. “You’re very handsome like your father.”
Malcolm smiled. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”
Samira glanced at Gloria and winked. “You better hold on to your heart with this one. He just might steal it.”
Gloria’s face burned; she had to touch it to make sure it hadn’t melted off.
Malcolm coughed, choking back his own laughter.
“This way,” Samira sang, grabbing two menus. “Will it be just the two of you?”
“Yes,” Gloria answered.
“Would you like your and Harmon’s regular table? It’s available.”
“Uh,” she said, stalling.
“That will be fine,” Malcolm answered, carefully keeping his eyes away from Gloria’s.
Gloria fell in line behind the hostess as she led them toward the back of the restaurant. It might have been her imagination, but she swore she felt Malcolm’s heavy gaze trained on the back of her head. Was he already regretting coming here with her?
Most likely.
“Have a good evening,” Samira said, setting the menus down on their table. “Your
