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I glance to Randy and find myself giving his perma-stoneface the same forced smile the man from the seventh floor gave me. His long black hair, combed back to the nape of his neck, makes him look like an angry biker in a suit. He gives me a look, not scolding, just blank. I often wonder if he can feel anything.
As we ascend, he and Preston talk about some bar they used to frequent at college. The other men in the elevator have gone silent. Their subtle glances at me and my brother make my face burn. Clearly, they must notice the lack of acknowledgement between us. I probably look like I’m adopted to boot, given the vast difference in our appearances. This is worse than family dinners.
I practically burst out of the elevator when the doors open on the sixth floor, grateful to escape the awkwardness and the shame. I’m not sure why Dad insisted I come work at Fairway if he and Randy treat me like a third cousin.
Blowing out a breath, I pause as I come face to face with Pete. Not face to face exactly, since he’s about ten feet away, headed toward me, but his face is the only thing in my focus.
When he sees me, his lips part, and his pace slows. Was he looking for me?
I start toward him, so I won’t look like a love-struck heroine waiting for the hero to come to her. It’s easy to smile this time. Just the sight of him turns on a light inside my dark little world.
As we near each other, I slow, but he… doesn’t. My heart is practically hammering out of my chest. I can feel his heat. Smell his fresh, clean scent. I remember that heat, that scent. They’re etched in my senses.
What should I say? Is he going to say anything?
No one’s around. We could say something. He’s not even looking at me now, though.
To my embarrassment, I don’t even realize I’ve stopped until he’s passing me. There’s a file with papers in his hand. Maybe he didn’t come to my floor to see me, after all.
His honeyed chocolate gaze flicks to mine when he stops to call the elevator. Is that wariness in them? A warning? Heat? All three?
I don’t have time to further study whatever emotions are in his eyes before the doors open and swallow him up. He’s gone. Just like that. Without a word.
What does it mean?
Was he disappointed with me? Was he only willing to humor me just that once? Or is he just being the perfect gentleman that he is while at work, not discussing secret affairs in public?
Why did I not ask for his number before I got on my knees?
Something desperate has my feet moving forward. I need to know if I’m doomed with any man I attempt to connect with in the future. There’s only one person who knows the answer to that, and he’s in this elevator.
The doors start to close, giving me a jolt of adrenaline. I spring forward, stopping them with my hand. When they retract, I bound inside, breathless.
He’s alone. I’ve got him alone.
“Hey,” I wheeze, sidling in beside him.
I have his undivided attention now, but it’s not the type of attention I was hoping for. He looks like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. Am I being too forward? My disaster plan can’t become a complete disaster. It’s the only plan I have.
CHAPTER 8
Pete
Reviewing the past Valentine’s Day trends was apparently the wrong game plan to start off my work week. Three hours of pouring over slogans of intimacy, heart-shaped packages with bows, and images of couples kissing and holding hands are doing fuck all to keep a certain visitor to my home from my head.
‘Taste the passion.’ Heat vents through my suit as I stare at a slogan for better-than-sex chocolate cupcakes from two seasons ago. My throat closes up, suffocated by the overwhelming memory of the passion I tasted this weekend. It was better than sex.
I swore to myself last night that I was done getting dragged into a trance over the recall of everything that happened when I deleted my security footage last night. Stick to your guns, Pete. You deleted it for a reason. It was the right thing to do.
A review of the footage yesterday had me convinced there wasn’t a trace of malice in Cameron. There were plenty of traces of other things, but not malice.
Watching his nervous movements, combined with his undertones of courage and wonder, was an erotic and yet touching program I couldn’t tear my eyes away from. I must have watched it three times, assuring myself I was only doing so in case I missed something.
That’s no explanation why I went to bed painfully hard and barely slept a wink. Am I a voyeur? I don’t think I took a single breath or even blinked each time I played it. I’m haunted by the look of eagerness on his face and his dreamy expression of relief. Cameron Fairway was in love with my cock for seven minutes and forty-three seconds, and that fact still feels like the magnum opus of my life.
Shifting in my chair, I adjust myself. The restriction in my pants wasn’t supposed to clock in with me this morning, but it’s as if my dick knew that Cameron would be in the building and has been primed for a meeting since I got here.
I thought the Mariners game on Saturday with Mark, his girlfriend, and her cousin, Jessica, would help to wipe my brain of those seven minutes and forty-three seconds. I was certain that my obsession with people-watching in a crowded public place would trump the new thoughts of Cameron that had been deluging me. But I wasn’t focused on who in the bleachers looked like they would start a fight, who would spill something on me, if the greasy stadium food was properly cooked, or if a fly ball would rocket into the stands and break someone’s nose. In that regard, my forced attempt at exposure therapy worked. I removed myself from my usual fears. Unfortunately, I replaced them with new obsessions.
