5. Chapter 5 #2
“Still not the first place your mind should go.” His gaze drifts over my face.
I cross my arms. “Don’t act like you weren’t baiting me.”
“You think I have to bait you?” His brow shifts a fraction. “You walked in here to make a point,” he says. “And all you’ve done since you opened your mouth is tell me exactly where your head’s been.”
“We both know what you asked for.” I hold his gaze because looking away would be a surrender. “And I could easily go to HR with it.”
He studies me for a long second, then drops his eyes briefly to my crossed arms, the way I’m holding myself together like a barricade. When he looks back up, there’s no worry in them.
“I asked you what you’d trade. You skipped right past every innocent thing and landed on my hands on you.”
My mind helpfully conjures images of that happening, and a shiver almost runs through me. I can’t believe how little he’s actually done to make me lose my footing.
My eyes slip to his mouth, then lower to the sheen of sweat on his chest, the black ink stretched over muscle, the wrapped hands hanging loose at his sides.
When I drag my gaze back up, something dark and terribly pleased settles into his stillness.
He lifts one wrapped hand, slow enough to give me every chance to stop him.
I don’t.
Why am I not stopping him?
His knuckle brushes the side of my jaw. That is the exact point where the room becomes unlivable.
My stomach drops. This is the first time he’s ever touched me.
And even though it’s barely a touch, butterflies erupt in my stomach.
A sharp, low twist of heat feels so out of place during a conversation like this that it makes me angry enough to recover.
I slap his hand away. His fingers fall back to his side with no resistance. Just that infuriating calm again, like even that gave him something he wanted.
I look at him, breathing harder now, and know with total clarity that another thirty seconds in this room would be a catastrophe.
“Whatever fantasy you’ve built up in your head,” I say, “kill it. Because it’s not happening.”
For my own good.
I said what I came here to say. Time to go, Lilly. Move your feet.
I don’t give him the chance to answer. I back away from him and head straight to the door, almost breaking into a run.
“Lilly.” His voice stops me halfway out the doorway.
I turn my head, looking at him over my shoulder. He’s already circling the punching bag again, not looking at me. He delivers a set of punches and grabs the swinging bag.
“Stop coming to me if you want this to end.”
My brows furrow until I understand what he means. Because every conversation we’ve had has started with me coming to him. Not the other way around. A furious, overheated part of me still wants the last word.
“Stop giving me something to come back for.”
I know the second I say it that I shouldn’t have. I don’t stick around for his reaction or response. I leave in a hurry, the air feeling cool against my skin as I fly past the remaining people in the building.
That was supposed to end something. It feels like all I did was walk in there and confirm that this is a losing battle.
I’m halfway through reorganizing the same pile of T-shirts for the third time.
On the coffee table beside my empty wine glass sits a heavy manila folder stuffed with printed floor plans, non-profit grant applications, and handwritten budget notes for my dream youth center. I snap the folder shut and tuck it safely into the front pocket of my duffel.
“We need more wine,” Nora says, standing and taking our empty glasses with her. From the kitchen, she calls out, “Red or white?”
Who knew spilling chocolate milk on her new skirt in middle school would lead to us being best friends?
“White,” I call back automatically, placing a top in a stack beside my duffel. The bag is open, half full, and surrounded by categorized piles.
Nora comes back in with the bottle in one hand and our refilled glasses in the other.
“Here,” she says, handing me one. She takes a few steps farther into the room, then pauses by the window facing the street.
“Well,” she says, lifting one side of the curtain to lean closer to the glass.
“What?” I look up from the packing cube I’m zipping.
“There is a very sexy car parked outside.”
I set the cube aside and cross the room, stopping beside her.
She lifts the curtain a little more so I can see.
Across the street, parked a little off from the curb, is a black car I’ve never seen before.
If I can even call it a car. It looks like a Batmobile.
Long, glossy, and crouched low to the ground.
It definitely doesn’t belong to any of my neighbors.
“Maybe someone has a guest,” I say finally. I let the curtain slip from my fingers and step back from the window. “It’s just a car.”
“A deeply sinister hot car.”
“In a nice neighborhood,” I add. “That’s not exactly suspicious.”
“I think I have to start meeting your neighbors.” Nora follows me back, amused.
She drops down onto the edge of the couch, carefully avoiding the neatly arranged stacks, then looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“You’ve been weird all night.”
“I’m packing.”
I slide a pair of shorts into a packing cube and zip it shut. I pause, then reach for my glass on the coffee table and take a long sip.
“This is about a guy.” She watches me over the rim of her own glass.
With a sigh, I set the glass down and sit beside the open bag. “It’s not about a guy.”
“Mm.”
“It’s just...” I trail off, then grab my wine again. “There’s someone at the rink.”
Her face changes instantly.
“There’s someone at the rink,” she repeats. “And you were going to tell me this when?”
“It’s not like that.”
That only makes her more interested.
“Then what is it like?”
I hesitate, staring down into my glass for a second.
How do I even explain him?
Nora shifts closer. “Is he hot?”
I exhale through my nose.
“Wow.” Nora’s eyebrows shoot up. “Scalding, huh?”
“He is objectively an extremely handsome man, yes, but that is not the point.”