Chapter 22 #3
He sighs and lets go of me, stepping back. He turns me to face him and holds me against him lightly, his fingers grazing the top of my butt innocently, though I feel them as if they’re electric prods tuned into my wavelength to incite my hormones into overdrive.
“Are you going to tell me you don’t want to be touched, Bianca? That you’re not attracted to me?”
“I…” I can hardly look at him, so I lower my eyes to his chest where my hands rest against his chest, the perfectly sculpted firm muscles, his heart beating hard underneath, and my palms itch to roam.
Can I lie? I have a feeling it wouldn’t do any good if I did.
In fact, I give myself a mental slap because I need to deal with the reality that I’m massively attracted to this man and that he may very possibly be attracted to me.
To try and pretend otherwise is one pretense too many.
I look back up at him and realize he’s waiting patiently for my response, not prodding me, not annoyed. Maybe because he’s confident that I’m attracted and that I’ll come around to admitting it.
“Okay, I’m attracted to you. Happy?”
He laughs at my ungracious and very unsexy admission.
“It’s not a flaw, honeybuns.”
“No, but it’s dangerous.”
He sighs deeply. “You’re worried I’ll take advantage of you? Because you’re a serious relationship kind of woman?”
“No,” I shake my head violently even though he’s hit the nail on the head. But I feel foolish because when he said it out loud, it sounded foolish, like I’m a child and I need to grow up. After all, there’s no guarantee in any relationship, serious or otherwise, that it’s not going to end.
Am I really waiting for Mr. Right? The last time I ventured into a relationship impulsively—meaning just because I was attracted—didn’t work out very well. Understatement.
My heart, but my self-confidence, exploded into a million minuscule pieces, and I’ve been putting it back together bit by bit ever since. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to take another chance.
But if not now, when?
“No? Then what is it? Not the agent-client thing? Not at this stage, honeybuns.” He smiles softly, with understanding as his eyes penetrate me, and I let myself feel it.
“It’s complicated. I mean, I’m obviously attracted to you, but…
I’m not comfortable… you know…” I cringe at my awkwardness, swearing at how obviously uncomfortable I am and wishing I weren’t, wishing I had the same confidence with him that I have with other people in the business, or I did before this fake marriage fiasco.
It should help that his expression is nothing short of understanding, and when he gently and slowly brushes a stray strand of hair from my face, I want to melt into a helpless puddle and tell him I’m his, that I’ll have his babies and—wait. What the heck, Bianca Brooks.
I pull back from his hold like he’s a poisonous snake, even knowing he doesn’t deserve the comparison, that it’s my own weakness and paranoia I’m struggling with. Either way, I need separation.
“We don’t know each other—not that way. We’re…” I wave my hand between us. “Business. Contracts and deals. Not kisses and hearts.” I smile, finally somewhat satisfied with the words that I’m putting together.
“How about the kisses without the hearts?” His expression turns curious. “Any chance we can graduate from contracts to kissing? Because I’m pretty sure we already have, Bianca.”
When he calls me Bianca instead of honeybuns, I know he’s serious. I also know he’s kind of right.
I give a nervous chuckle. “That’s just it—my body may have graduated, but in my head, I’m still stuck with the contracts and…” I end with a shrug.
He blinks, his expression shuttering, and I have a moment of deep regret and more than a little panic because maybe I’ve ruined things.
Maybe I’m making a big mistake by not giving in to whatever my suddenly wanton body wants.
And deal with my practical mind and guilty conscience later.
I wish I could take back my words if it would get back the beautiful, sincere smile he had for me a second ago.
“You’re right. No matter how much chemistry we have, if you’re not comfortable with kissing, then we’ll keep it…
platonic between us.” He says the word platonic like it pains him, like it’s worse than a swear word and against his religion.
It probably is if his religion is committed bachelorhood and endless indiscriminate good times with as many women as possible.
Which it probably is since that’s how he’s been living his life since I met him last year.
I nod, trying to smile. I should at least pretend to be happy since he’s being so understanding, behaving like a perfect gentleman, treating me with respect and being more than nice.
“Then how about ice cream for dessert?” he says, his grin back to real, if not quite as energetic as before.
“Now you’re speaking my love language,” I say, sounding and feeling like myself, like whatever pressure I was under to give in to my impulses has been lifted.
He’s let me off the hook, and I want to hug him for it.
But I probably shouldn’t do that. Mixed signals would be bad.
Keep that in mind, Bianca. No. Mixed. Signals. No matter how nice he’s being.
Shit. This platonic thing would be so much easier if he were a jerk.
The idea that I’m in bed with Brody Holden keeps knocking around in my head, pushing against my very real enjoyment of the moment, trying to insist that this is all a dream.
But as I shovel—I mean gracefully slip another spoonful of Ben then how did I not know?