10. Lisa #2
After a pause, I enter, willing my chest to stop squeezing tighter at the prospect of being alone in a closed space with this man.
My mind flicks back to the footage I saw of him during his game, literally lifting the other player in the air, just to slam him on the ice, and my throat threatens to close on my breaths.
Winny likes him, I remind myself. And you already were alone with him once, and nothing bad happened. At least, he didn’t do anything. You’re the one who had a panic attack.
I look down at Winston’s relaxed face to calm myself. He gazes up at me, his warm brown eyes gleaming happily against the black fur that rims his eyes like eyeliner. My chest loosens. Thanks, Winny.
Benjamin clambers in and pushes 6, then glances at me with raised brows. Instead of telling him, I reach across him and press 8.
“Top floor,” he notes, moving his gaze from the elevator buttons to me. “I’m in 604.”
I don’t respond, but he continues, ignoring the hint. “Care to explain how you can afford to live on the top floor off a barista and bartender salary?”
My jaw goes slack. “It’s not polite to ask someone about their finances, you know.”
“Some would argue it’s not polite to punch people, either.”
I blink in surprise at his retort. Another apology bubbles up, a reflex etched into my bones, too familiar to me now to be unlearned. When I meet his gaze, however, I see a twinkle of amusement. He’s teasing me.
I bite back the apology and take a deep breath. “You said yourself you had it coming. But can we not do this?”
“Fair enough. I probably owe you one.” He leans back against the wall of the elevator and opens his mouth again, unwilling to let us ride in silence. “Just so you know, your friend had a great night with Grant after we left. So you could say we made that happen.”
“I heard.” My gaze sidles to Benjamin, and I silently appreciate the distance he’s put between us. It’s just enough that I feel like I can breathe. “Did you know your friend is a snuggler?”
He chuckles. “I wish I could say I didn’t, but unfortunately, yes. He’s a known snuggler.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” I can’t help a faint smile. “Andi said she made him be the little spoon after a few minutes, because it was like being embraced by the sun.”
“The male body,” he agrees. “Generally known to be the same temperature as the sun.”
A timely shiver climbs up my body, and I curl my arms into my jacket. “Running hot isn’t the worst thing in this weather. I just want to get back upstairs to my bath and my book.”
“A bath and a book, you say?” His brows rise. “Now that’s an image that won’t leave my head for quite some time.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Seriously? You accused me of stalking you not two weeks ago, and now here you are, fishing for information on me and envisioning me covered in bubbles.”
“I didn’t say there were bubbles involved.
” He beams at me, and despite myself, I flush.
He’s got a great smile, and he clearly knows it.
“I seem to recall a conversation where you declined my initial offer and encouraged me to have fun with my own hand. Are you telling me I shouldn’t do that now, either? ”
My mouth drops open, and I toss my hair over my shoulder, turning away from him. “That’s…neither here nor there. Just leave me out of it.”
He’s silent, and for a moment, I think I’ve finally gotten him to drop the conversation. When I glance at him again, though, his eyes are fixated on my neck, his expression dark. I back up a step.
“Did someone hurt you?” he asks, quietly.
I freeze, stunned silent.
He steps forward, and before I can react, his fingers are on my neck.
I’m unable to move, my breath catching in my throat even as my heartbeat thrashes in my ears.
I search his eyes for that rage, but find none of it – only a soft concern.
His touch is featherlight, but I still refuse to breathe again until he’s moved away from my neck.
When he does, realization floods through me.
His fingers are covered in flakes of red and black, mixing together in what looks morbidly like darkened blood.
His brow knits together as he inspects the dried concoction that somehow made its way onto my neck – probably from moving my hair out of the way when I had paint all over my fingers earlier.
“It’s paint, you idiot,” I snarl, and press my palms flat against his chest, shoving hard to get much-needed distance between us so I can clear my head.
As I do, though, I can’t help but notice how rock solid his chest is, and my traitorous emotions latch onto that line of thinking.
I have the sudden urge to slide my hands under his sweater and feel my way over all those hard planes, letting the heat of his body warm my fingers.
I realize belatedly that I’ve kept my hands on him a bit too long and snatch them away, wrapping them back around myself protectively.
Instead of looking offended, he lets out a bark of laughter, startling me.
“Well, I’m glad it’s just paint. And at least when I touched you now you just shoved me, instead of punching me.
” He leans in conspiratorially, and I lean back, but refuse to move my feet.
“When will we move on to you begging for it?”
My god, this man is giving me whiplash. I shoot him my darkest possible glare. “Does begging for you to leave me alone count?”
“You’re cute when you’re irritated.”
“Cute? I’ve heard it referred to as an attitude problem.”
The elevator comes to a stop, and he smirks. “Maybe I like your attitude problem.”
What a weird thing to say. Why do I kind of like that he likes it? But then I swallow, and remember his fingers at my throat.
“Benjamin.”
He stops, holding a hand to the elevator door to keep it open as he faces me again. “Yes?”
“Don’t ever touch my neck again.”
He frowns in confusion. “Why?”
I simply purse my lips. Why can’t he just agree to the simple demand, instead of asking invasive questions all the time? Instead, he shoots me an indecipherable look.
“Oh, sugar.” He sighs and drops his hand away from the door. “What did you bury so deep you won’t even let yourself uncover it?”