He sat in the car, rubbing his sweaty palms against the fabric of his dark blue suit pants, the anxiety building like a storm. Outside, the air was crisp and cold, and the Aston Martin's AC only made it chillier, yet sweat beaded on his forehead and pooled in his hands.
"Perhaps we should lower the temperature, sir? You're sweating," Atlas said, glancing over with concern.
He frowned and turned to him. "Focus on whatever it is you're doing," he snapped, brushing him off. How could Atlas not see he wasn't in the mood for chit-chat? Here he was, battling a whirlwind of pent-up frustration and nerves he refused to show, and Atlas was fixated on the damn AC?
Sighing, Atlas shifted his gaze back to the tablet on his lap, deciding it was best to stay quiet.
He bit his lower lip, letting out a slow breath. Why was he taking it out on Atlas? The guy was just doing his job.
