"Coffee?" I asked Mr. Atticus, placing down the cup of warm coffee down on his table and he looked up from his laptop.
Today, I felt better. I had groomed up myself pretty well. I was wearing a purple shirt and a pair of trousers instead of jeans and skirts. I didn't want to strain my bullet wound. I had combed my hair, braiding them elegantly.
His eye gazed at my frame and then to the coffee on his table. His eyes softened for a second before they went impassive again. I cared less about it. I had always cared less about how impassive he was because he had confessed something that was very personal to me.
"I thought you were on leave. You are not to work for a couple of days more, Miss Wilson." He said, looking at me seriously and something inside my belly fluttered as he kept stari
