Beauty And Her Boss. Jennifer Faye

to the office area, he paused. There was no light visible from under the door and no sounds coming from within. He hated sneaking around his own home, but he didn’t have any other choice. He didn’t want to startle her with his appearance.

      He recalled what had happened when his friends, or rather the people he’d considered friends, had visited him in the hospital right after his accident. They were unable to hide their repulsion at seeing the scars on his face, neck and arms. And then he’d held up a mirror to see for himself. The damage was horrific. After numerous rounds of plastic surgery, his plastic surgeon insisted the swelling and red angry scars would fade. Deacon didn’t believe him. He’d already witnessed the devastating damage that had been done. It was so bad that he’d removed all the mirrors in the house as well as any reminders of how he used to look.

      Deacon banished the troublesome thoughts. What was done, was done. He moved into the office and placed the stack of papers on Gabrielle’s desk. That would definitely keep her busy today and probably some of tomorrow.

      He noticed that her desk was tidy. However, there were no pictures or anything to tell him a little about her. It was though she wasn’t planning to be here one minute longer than necessary to repay her father’s debt. Not that Deacon could blame her—no one wanted to be here, including him. But he couldn’t go out in the world—not until the accident was resolved and answers were provided.

      Without tarrying too long, he turned to leave. He was almost to the door when he heard a key scrape in the lock. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to linger in the office and have a face-to-face conversation with Gabrielle. In that moment, he realized how much he missed human contact. Maybe if he were to stay—maybe it would be different this time. Maybe she wouldn’t look at him like he was a monster—a monster that killed her aunt.

      He gave himself a mental shake. It was just a bunch of wishful thinking. He moved with lightning speed to the other door. He grasped the doorknob and, without slowing down, he gave it a yank, slipped into the outer hallway and kept moving. He needed distance from the woman who made him think about how one night—one moment—had ruined things for so many people.