Pocketbook Holder For Table 소설 & 이야기

"But you have to stay still. Do you understand?" I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat had closed up, my heart was pounding, and all I could do was stare at him. His hand moved to his pocket. When it came back, he was holding a small silver diffuser. The kind used to neutralize silver bindings without causing harm to the wearer. He positioned himself, his body pressing closer, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. Could smell him—he smelled good. Exotic. Then why the hell did that make my head spin?

“No, I just don’t have a nicotine problem.” They go back and forth, voices lowering into a bickering hiss that neither of them is fully committed to. I tune them out, taking another bite of my food, until I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Nate. He returns with quick, determined strides, holding something close to his chest. As he reaches the table, he slaps down a worn sketchbook, its cover bent and edges frayed from frequent use. I look up at him, confused. “What is this?”

"Choose whatever you want. I'll pay for it." Without realizing it I scooted closer to the edge of the table and leaned my arm on the table to more easily access the device, but now I knitted my brows and straightened my body. Seeing my skeptical gaze, Jayden reached into a thin black wallet with a brand name stamped on the leather and handed me a piece of card.

“Grab your tablet.” “Tablet?” She turned to find a brand-new tablet with detachable keyboard on her desk. “They’re easier to travel with than a computer.” Carl handed her a folder. “Keep this available. When I ask for a paper, hand it to me.” “Yes, sir.” She slipped the folder in the small Kate Spade tablet holder and followed Carl out the door.

And right now, she’s showing me more than she probably realizes. Her bag slips onto the table, soft fabric bending under the weight, and that’s when I see it. Not a phone. Not a tablet. A book. The cover’s weathered, edges softened from too many hands, too many days stuffed into the same bag. She slides a thin strip of paper free and opens to her page without hesitation.

Padded along the surface. "Sit on the table," Alex said. I looked at it. Half my height. Not even. The proportions of it were not immediately making sense to me and I said so. "It is quite small," I said. "Half my height at most." "I will check on that." He moved to the side of it and reached underneath and pulled something out. A fitted extension, built in, drawer style, one section for arms and another that unfolded for legs, the whole thing locking into place with a quiet precise click that said this had been designed with specific intention and someone had thought about it in detail.

He nods and leans to the side, pulling something out of the large hidden pocket he had down his leg. “I assume you know how to use a book and inkhold?” Tearing out the front pages he hands me a small hardcover book, bound with leather and rope, as well as what reminded me of a pen but I had to assume it was a modified bird feather, similar to how people used quills, just without the ink in a pot or the fluffy touch. Funnily enough, I don’t hesitate to take it and start writing notes about some of the things I have heard about today.

A small mirror with a moon etched on its surface. And a thin black book.

I removed it. Leaning the other way in the chair, I pulled out the drawer on my right, several large folios of pack documents piled high in this larger drawer. I pulled out one in particular, the cover embossed with markings that indicated this included ledgers of non-profits and other organizations traditionally overseen by the Aperture Luna. The binder was thick, and despite being lifted and placed on the desk, didn’t open. The edges had been sculpted so finely and painted so carefully to look like paper, that anyone rifling through the desk would have never realized this was in fact, no binder at all. I had almost missed it myself, the first time I had been cleaning out Sienna’s things.

I flip through, noting that most of the books are on finance, business, and leadership. I walk to and sit on the single leather chair that's definitely his from the way the smell of leather mixes with his own smell. "Mmm," I moan. The smell is divine. I'm sure if it could be bottled up and sold, a lot of people would buy it. Not that I'm inclined to share. Archer is all mine and no one else. I imagine sitting down here and taking care of business, all powerful and dominant. I run my hand on the smooth surface of the table and sigh. It's exquisite. I reach down and drag one of the drawers out.