He stops and takes his hands out of my hair when I admit to him that I’m not really hurt. And then, oh God, he stands up and crosses his arm, and with that hair and those eyes he looks like the Archangel Michael about to slay the Assyrians, beautiful and wrathful. He looks angry, but not as shocked as he’s making out. I think he does know what I’m talking about.

“I apologize, then. Sir.” I say softly, and look up at him through my hair, still keeping my head a little bent, doing my best to look not sorry at all. Try to look, in fact, like someone who needs to be taught a lesson, a very thorough lesson after which he will be very sorry indeed. My heart’s pounding so hard he must be able to hear it. I think I know what I’m getting myself into here, but I’m not at all sure. But there’s a chance that this man might be able to give me what I’ve been craving for longer than I care to think about, and I’m willing to take that chance. “Shouldn’t have made you think you were going to have to work on your day off. That was very wrong of me.”