151. Courtney
Chapter 151
Courtney
“Cake first?” Cook’s question draws my attention up from my plate.
Sterling makes a noise of approval. “No offense.”
I didn’t want to look at him while he was opening his birthday note.
I’m not a spy. I don’t know how to be clandestine.
But looking at him now, as he shovels another bite of cake into his mouth… It feeds something inside me.
He likes it.
I did something for him, and he likes it.
“None taken.” Cook chuckles.
I look between the men, trying to understand the joke.
Sterling puts the last bite of cake into his mouth, then immediately reaches for the spatula sticking out of the pan and serves himself a second slice.
I start to grin but end up gasping. “Oh my god, your hand.”
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I reach for him, gripping his left sleeve.
The hand nearest me is resting on the table, and I stare down at the damaged skin .
“Court—” He cuts himself off from saying my full name. And it reminds me that we are boss and employee right now. “It’s nothing.”
I release his sleeve but keep looking at the cuts across the top of his knuckles.
Then he sets his second slice of cake down, and I get a look at his right hand.
And it’s so much worse.
“Sterling.” It comes out as more of a scolding than I intended, and the room goes silent, all attention on us.
My boss turns his head to face me, eyebrow lifted. “Yes?”
I glance around and confirm that, yes, everyone is looking at us.
I bite down on my lip.
“What’d I miss?” Leon calls out, leaning over the table to look this way.
“Court was yelling at Sterling.” Cook grins as he calls it out.
“I was not yelling,” I say reasonably.
“Huh?” Leon asks.
I mirror his position, leaning over the table, and say it louder. “I was not yelling.”
“Kind of sounds like yelling,” Simpson chimes in.
I blow out a breath and pick up a slice of pizza, shoving it into my mouth.
It doesn’t take long for conversation to start back up around the tables.
Taking another bite, I try to look at Sterling’s hands out of the corner of my eye.
His left hand is down on his thigh, inches away from my own, with a corner of paper showing from beneath his palm.
The few dark lines of broken skin look painful, but it’s nothing compared to his right hand.
Every knuckle on that hand is split. Wide cuts that look like they need bandages span his middle two knuckles, and the top of his hand is covered with discoloring that will surely darken into bruises.
Sterling was in a fight.
He had to have been in a fight.
But when ?
He didn’t have those marks last night. And this morning…
I was too sleepy, and then ravaged, to even notice his hands.
But it’s not like he could’ve been in a fight since leaving my bed a few hours ago.
I lift my eyes and take in his profile.
There are no signs of bruises on his face. No signs of injury anywhere other than his hands.
As I’m staring at his unharmed jawline, Sterling turns to look at me.
He holds my gaze for a beat, then tips his head to my plate. “Eat your lunch.”