Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Donovan and I ride down to the lobby without speaking, which is probably for the best. The smell of cedar and vanilla permeates the space between us again, and I’m still evenly split between sinking my teeth into him and lighting him on fire.
There are 150 employees at Smashbox. Of all of them, why is he the one Ethan stuck me with? And how am I going to collaborate creatively with someone who can’t make eye contact with me or unhinge his jaw long enough to utter multisyllabic words in my general direction?
Also, how am I going to handle coming into the office every day? There is a reason I work from home. My life is carefully engineered to accommodate my…ability.
It’s just temporary , I assure myself as the elevator door opens and, with his customary excellent manners, Donovan strides out in front of me. We’ll work on it, we’ll get it done, and I’ll be free of Mr. Personality. Then, everything will go back to normal.
The security guard at the front desk gives us a cheerful wave as we walk by. Donovan, predictably, is oblivious. I wave back, trying not to look as discouraged as I feel. It’s not Sloth Security’s fault this day has turned out to be a shitshow.
Rain pelts the street outside, hammering the building so hard I can hear it. The few cars braving the weather are kicking up waves of water in their wake. Donovan yanks the door open, I step through, and together we stand beneath the awning. It’s even worse close up: the rain is falling in great slanting sheets, the wind whipping it sideways. Lightning strikes the mountains again. On its heels, thunder booms, and I flinch.
Donovan opens the umbrella he brought downstairs. Immediately, the wind threatens to rip it from his grip. “My car’s about two minutes away,” he says, holding on tight. “Can you walk in those, or…?”
He points at my feet, doubtless remembering the condition in which I arrived at Smashbox. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, but his judgmental expression tells me otherwise.
Then again, maybe that’s just his face.
“I can walk,” I say, giving him the look the question deserves and shoving my purse into my laptop bag to protect it.
Donovan sighs. “Come on, then.” He stalks out from underneath the awning, and I trot after him, doing my best to keep up with his far longer legs.
He walks quickly, not that I can blame him. I don’t want to be out here, either. But no matter what I told Donovan, my heels aren’t made for jogging in regular weather, far less in a freaking monsoon. More than once, I almost lose my balance, but I grit my teeth and persist. Rain sloshes over every inch of me as I scuttle along, threatening to soak my lavender shirt. I clutch my bag close, determined not to flash Donovan on top of everything else.
When I steal a glance at him, I can’t help but notice that he’s unaccountably, impossibly dry. Something about the angle of the umbrella, combined with his height, is protecting him, whereas I have begun to resemble a proverbial drowned rat. My hair is straggling out of its bun again, I’m pretty sure my mascara is running, and there’s something wrong with one of my shoes. It’s…wobbly, in a way that can’t bode any good.
The next time I slip, Donovan actually notices. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he says, peering down at me. “You’re not exactly dressed for this.”
I should tell him that okay is the very last thing I am. That my knees hurt, my butt aches, I’m pretty sure the seam of my skirt is ripping, and if he could just slow down rather than zipping down the street like the lead car in the Indianapolis 500, maybe I wouldn’t have to sprint in these damn shoes to keep up. But my pride is all I have left, so I say, “I’m fine. Let’s just get there.”
He takes my word for it, heading straight for a puddle that he can easily step over. I, on the other hand, have three choices: go around and abandon the umbrella, jump, or wade through.
“Would you wait—” I begin, pitching my voice to be heard above the pounding rain. When he doesn’t respond, I jog after him…and then the heel of my shoe catches in a crack in the sidewalk and snaps straight off. I lose my balance again, and this time, there’s no getting it back.
For an instant, I entertain the bizarre notion that Donovan will catch me. But he just stares at me, mouth stretched wide like he’s got the starring role in a Munch painting, as I teeter, wheel my arms frantically for balance, and capsize into the puddle—fancy skirt, laptop bag, and all.
It says a lot about my priorities that my first instinct is to protect my laptop rather than, say, my face. But my Mac is my livelihood, after all. And it’s not like I can afford another one.
I wind up on my bruised butt in the puddle, my legs splayed, my laptop bag crushed against my chest and the rain beating down on me. The seam of my skirt is definitely toast now. There are things floating in here: dirt and fast food wrappers and even a hair tie. I half expect to see the paper boat from It. This has been a Pennywise kind of day.
“Are you all right?” Donovan looms over me, still holding the umbrella. And, I realize, the heel of my shoe, which he’s somehow retrieved. He looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.
“If you say I told you so, ” I snap at him, struggling to get to my feet, “I will kill you.”
His teeth sink into his lower lip, as if it’s a physical effort to restrain himself, but somehow he manages. Instead, he reaches out to me with his free hand. “Anything broken?”
Muddy water sluices from my ruined skirt as I let him pull me to my feet. His hand is warm and dry and I hate him. “Just my dignity.”
“At the risk of wounding it further,” he says, sounding a little choked, “I guess I shouldn’t mention that people are staring.”
Balancing on one leg, I look around to see what he means. I was unlucky enough to take a spill in front of the yoga studio, which has a glass storefront, and I can count at least four familiar faces plastered against it: Jenny, a former beauty queen who operates Sapphire Springs’ animal shelter; Bea, who owns the studio and whose logo I designed; Hot Yoga Grandma, whose apples I liberated this morning (because of course); and D’Andre, the local gossip.
Bea is snickering. Traitor. And Jenny is…waving at Donovan, who waves back at her, smiling like an actual person rather than a human version of Oscar the Grouch.
Great. Maybe it’s only me he can’t stand. And the entire staff of Smashbox.
In about five minutes, this scene will be all over Sapphire Springs. D’Andre has already pulled out his phone. I can see the rumor mill churning now. Combined with this morning’s arrest, I’ll never live it down.
As if my reputation weren’t bad enough already.
I yank off my broken shoe, then my good one, tears prickling behind my eyes. “If you’ll stop flirting with Jenny,” I snap, “then maybe we can get out of the rain? Not that it’ll make much difference to me at this point, but still.”
Donovan jerks his gaze away from the yoga studio. “I wasn’t—oh, never mind. Yes. Of course. Let’s go. If you…can you…”
His eyes flicker over my feet, then the rest of me, growing more horrified by the moment. I can practically see the wheels turning in his mind: There are sharp objects on the ground. She could cut her feet. Maybe I should offer to carry her. But no, she’s wet and dirty. If I carry her, then I will be wet and dirty, too. And then… and then… Cue system shutdown.
I try not to think about how it would feel to be held against that broad chest. To inhale that cedar-and-vanilla scent and be close enough to determine the precise shade of blue of his eyes. It’s a horrible joke that he is so attractive and so awful, all at the same time. I have absolutely no business fantasizing about shutting his obnoxious mouth by pressing a kiss to those stern lips and?—
No. No no no. Crime scene, Rune. Do not cross.
Donovan is still staring at me like I’m a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve. Irritated with us both, I stomp away from him. A moment later, he catches up, lips quirked. “Where are you going?”
“To your car.”
“But you don’t know where it is,” he points out. “And I have the umbrella.”
“So what? It’s not like I can get any wetter.”
“Your laptop can.” His eyes fall to the bag, which I’m holding in a death grip against my chest. Then they skitter away, and I could swear the implacable Donovan Frost is blushing.
I glance down at myself. Sure enough, my shirt has given up the ghost and unbuttoned itself, revealing an impressive amount of cleavage.
Oh dear God. “Fine,” I say, feeling my own cheeks heat. “Lead the way.”
He does, walking a little slower this time. But the damage has already been done. Now all I can do is mitigate the fallout.