he wouldn’t have wanted her if she’d been that kind of girl, would he?
“Yeah.” He fitted a thumb at the base of the champagne cork and sent it flying with a fast movement. Emmie gasped at the loud pop . “I’m celebrating,” he explained, taking a long swig of the foaming crystal bubbles. “I can drink and listen at the same time.”
She looked flustered. “Okay.”
He gestured for her to continue.
“Right. Okay. Well, we didn’t discuss salary before.”
He shrugged. “It won’t change. I went over all that with Richards.”
Her brows plucked in surprise. “Yeah, but I thought…” she trailed off, lips compressing like she’d thought better of it.
“You thought I’d shaft you?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t think – this is just a bit of a change, is all. I sort of…” She gestured around her head with both hands.
“The salary won’t change. Not for you or the other two. How do you pronounce Fred’s real name, by the way?”
“He won’t tell me.”
“Well, I can copy it down on a check, at any rate. So it’s all good. No worries for you.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”
“Anal retentive, are we?”
“No.” She looked scandalized by the idea. “Practical.”
Walsh nodded, trying not to laugh. Her presence left him in better spirits than anything had in a long while. “Alright, Miss Practical.” He leaned toward her and offered the champagne bottle. “Stop raining on my parade.”
She looked at the bottle, then at his face. He was delighted to realize she’d put on lip gloss for this little chat. Not so practical after all, was she?
“I don’t have hepatitis, love.”
Still staring at him, her hand extended slowly.
“You’re not one of those no-drinking religious types, are you?”
Lips compressing, she took the bottle and lifted it to her mouth, took a healthy sip. His eyes followed the way her lips pursed around the bottle where his had been. The way her throat moved as she swallowed.
“At least, I don’t think I have hepatitis,” he said, and she choked, eyes going huge as she fought to keep the champagne in her mouth.
“Joking,” he said mildly. “I don’t fuck around with the club sluts.”
Finally recovered, Emmie thrust the bottle back toward him, her expression angrier than it should have been. “Oh, that’s a nice thought. Excuse me, I’ve got to–”
“Run go sit by yourself up in that apartment that smells like horse shit?”
“It doesn’t smell ,” she insisted. She was getting to that adorable, indignant state of annoyance. “And I–”
“Just want to be a martyr?”
“Would you stop it?”
“Would you sit down and drink your damn champagne?” he countered, without inflection.
Emmie had been pitched forward in her chair, and all but threw herself back, lifting the bottle and taking another swig.
“You won, love,” Walsh added. “You’ve got your farm, your job, your students, and you never have to deal with those pricks again. Be happy about that.”
She looked like she wanted to say something, but took another swallow instead.
~*~
There was a reason she didn’t drink very
“Yeah.” He fitted a thumb at the base of the champagne cork and sent it flying with a fast movement. Emmie gasped at the loud pop . “I’m celebrating,” he explained, taking a long swig of the foaming crystal bubbles. “I can drink and listen at the same time.”
She looked flustered. “Okay.”
He gestured for her to continue.
“Right. Okay. Well, we didn’t discuss salary before.”
He shrugged. “It won’t change. I went over all that with Richards.”
Her brows plucked in surprise. “Yeah, but I thought…” she trailed off, lips compressing like she’d thought better of it.
“You thought I’d shaft you?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t think – this is just a bit of a change, is all. I sort of…” She gestured around her head with both hands.
“The salary won’t change. Not for you or the other two. How do you pronounce Fred’s real name, by the way?”
“He won’t tell me.”
“Well, I can copy it down on a check, at any rate. So it’s all good. No worries for you.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”
“Anal retentive, are we?”
“No.” She looked scandalized by the idea. “Practical.”
Walsh nodded, trying not to laugh. Her presence left him in better spirits than anything had in a long while. “Alright, Miss Practical.” He leaned toward her and offered the champagne bottle. “Stop raining on my parade.”
She looked at the bottle, then at his face. He was delighted to realize she’d put on lip gloss for this little chat. Not so practical after all, was she?
“I don’t have hepatitis, love.”
Still staring at him, her hand extended slowly.
“You’re not one of those no-drinking religious types, are you?”
Lips compressing, she took the bottle and lifted it to her mouth, took a healthy sip. His eyes followed the way her lips pursed around the bottle where his had been. The way her throat moved as she swallowed.
“At least, I don’t think I have hepatitis,” he said, and she choked, eyes going huge as she fought to keep the champagne in her mouth.
“Joking,” he said mildly. “I don’t fuck around with the club sluts.”
Finally recovered, Emmie thrust the bottle back toward him, her expression angrier than it should have been. “Oh, that’s a nice thought. Excuse me, I’ve got to–”
“Run go sit by yourself up in that apartment that smells like horse shit?”
“It doesn’t smell ,” she insisted. She was getting to that adorable, indignant state of annoyance. “And I–”
“Just want to be a martyr?”
“Would you stop it?”
“Would you sit down and drink your damn champagne?” he countered, without inflection.
Emmie had been pitched forward in her chair, and all but threw herself back, lifting the bottle and taking another swig.
“You won, love,” Walsh added. “You’ve got your farm, your job, your students, and you never have to deal with those pricks again. Be happy about that.”
She looked like she wanted to say something, but took another swallow instead.
~*~
There was a reason she didn’t drink very
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