Holding You To It

MARISSA

Well—I wouldn’t have known what to say to that even if he had hung around to hear my answer. I felt the tops of my cheeks and ears heating.

Two conflicting trains of thoughts sped through my brain. Layton Bridges had just told me that he liked me. Okay, he liked that I’d eaten—which, on a side note, seemed like a strange thing to say to someone you’d invited to have dinner. Wasn’t dinner typically a meal where people ate?

The point, however, was that he’d said he liked something about me. Which made me strangely happy, if for no other reason than making me feel slightly more secure in my job—after Sexgate the other night and all.

The second train barreling through my brain was one carrying a fresh cargo of steaming humiliation. Had I eaten so much that he’d actually noticed? I did a mental check. I was full, but not stuffed. My plate had been cleared, but it wasn’t like I’d gorged myself on a dozen rolls or ordered seconds or something.

No. I shut that second train down immedi