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I should tell her to go.
Instead, I get up and pour two glasses of the scotch I’ve started keeping for nights when I can’t sleep.
My back to Lana, I’m tense, waiting for the click of the door.
Instead, I hear something drop on the ground. When I turn, I freeze when I realize she has taken off her heels and is now sitting on the couch, running her hands through her hair in an agitated manner.
“What makes you think it’s not a stomach bug?” she asks wearily as she accepts the glass I hold out to her.
Should I sit next to her?
I want to, so badly. However, I keep some distance between us, my gaze roaming admiringly over her legs and bare feet.
To my utter delight, her toes are painted a soft shade of shell pink.
I force my mind back to her question.
“I can’t say for sure. It was the expression on her face. You don’t get frightened over a stomach bug.”
Lana leans back against the couch. “Whatever it is, I hope she’s okay. I wish she’d let me go with her.”
“Lucas will take care of her. He’s very protective when it comes to her.”
She studies me then, interest in her eyes. “Saw that, did you? I thought I was imagining things.” She scoffs. “He has a crush on Elise.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes as I imagine her finishing her drink and then going downstairs, back to the party where other men can admire her beautiful form, give her compliments, and brush their hands over her skin as they coax her into a reluctant dance.
I throw back my drink in single swallow, ignoring the burn in my throat, then get up to refill my glass.
“How was your meeting with Caleb?” Lana asks. I turn around with my refilled glass to see her leaning down to rub her feet.
She’s acting out of character. To see her making herself so comfortable in my office has my brow rising.
When she holds up her glass, I refill it and hand it back.
“I took him up on his offer for living accommodations,” I say, watching her as her slender fingers massage her heel.
“Don’t you already have a place to live?” She sounds curious, her gaze meeting mine behind the shaded rims that dull the uniqueness of her eyes.
I’m overcome with the urge to rip those glasses off her face.
“There were some…problems with it.”
She straightens up, then sips her drink.
I’m afraid to move from my position against the desk, not trusting myself. This isn’t the first or second drink of the evening. It’s heading toward ten o’clock, and I’ve had a few.
“Aren’t you going to go back to the party?” I finally ask, saying something to fill the silence that holds too many opportunities, all of which I might regret in the morning.
“I don’t want to.” She frowns into her drink.
When she doesn’t elaborate, I urge her, “So what, you’re going to hide out in my office all night?”
There’s a certain appeal to the idea.
This time, she gets up, and I see a flash of emotion on her face. She hides it, making her way to the small table where the scotch bottle awaits her desperate hands.
“At least you won’t hurl accusations at me,” she mutters.
