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I only go to the door though, which is slightly ajar, and peek through the gap.
I can see his broad back. His dark hair, curled and brushing against the collar of his jacket, listening to whatever this Cynthia March is saying on the phone.
My heart thumps in my chest as I stand there, glued to my spot.
Spying on him.
Not that I haven’t done this before. But today, it feels wrong. It feels nerve-wracking.
Maybe because my intentions are way more dangerous than they usually are.
I’m not sure why I’m suddenly feeling guilty but I am.
But I tell myself that he brought this on himself. That he’s forcing me to do this. If he’d just gone for my original, non-threatening plan, I wouldn’t be doing this. Besides, if my plan is successful, I’d be doing everyone a favor. He’s here to make this place even more hellish. Maybe I can blackmail him into easing up a little.
So I force myself to listen.
Although all I really get are his clipped one-word answers: yes, no, all right. It goes on for another couple of minutes and I never get any clue as to what they’re talking about. And then at last he says, the longest sentence he has said in this phone call, “Fine. Tonight at nine then. My place.”
And then he switches off and I rush back to my seat.
I duck my head and with trembling fingers and a shaking heart, I start writing. I have no idea what I’m writing though. I have no idea what letters and words are flowing through the tip of my new gel pen but I keep at it. Even when I hear him come into the room, his footsteps muted by the carpet, and as he settles back in his chair.
And then I keep at it until he says, “Your time’s up.”
I actually jump at his voice.
Looking up, I find his chocolate chip gaze on me, all intense and penetrating. It immediately makes me squirm in my seat, guilt churning anew at what I did. “Uh, I haven’t finished all the pages.”
He lets a beat pass before he replies, “So you’ll finish them tomorrow.”
I study him for a second, trying to solve the mystery of the call.
More like, the caller.
But I can’t say that I see anything different on him. He looks the same as he did when I walked into the room.
Swallowing, I nod. “Okay. So I’ll go then.”
He doesn’t respond to that, simply keeps his eyes on me, his elbows settled on the armrest, his fingers gripping the pen. Under his steady gaze, I somehow manage to come to my feet. I sling my backpack over my shoulder before I take a last look at him — he’s still watching me — and turn around.
I feel his heavy gaze on me as I walk to the door with trembling knees.
I reach out my hand to open the door but hesitate. I don’t want to leave, I realize.
I want to ask him about the phone call. I want to know who this Cynthia is.
I just do and I don’t care how it affects my plans.
With that stupid, reckless thought, I begin to turn around but find that I can’t.
Because he’s right there.
Right behind me.
Like the night in the cottage, I feel his heat at my back, his scent in my lungs. And oh my God, he’s touching me again.
His fingers are wrapped around my hand, the one that’s touching the knob.
And before I can stop myself, I whisper, “You’re hurting me.”
“No, I’m not.”
No, he isn’t.
God, he isn’t.
Even though his touch is just as hot and rough as that night. It doesn’t hurt.
“It’s going to bruise tomorrow,” I lie.
“No, it won’t.” Then, letting my wrist go, he adds, “Turn around.”
My belly clenches at his command and I drop my hand from the knob.
Before I know what I’m doing, I obey him.
I turn around and press my spine to the door when I see how close he is. I hug my backpack to my chest when I realize how his impossibly broad shoulders are blocking out the room behind him.
My heart is so loud and fast that it’s beating in my ears.
Reaching up to adjust my glasses, I ask, “What are you doing, uh, four feet away from me?”
“I want you to tell me something.”
“What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He studies my face for a few seconds before asking, “Where are your contacts?”
I realize that he’s looking at my hand that’s still on my glasses.
Lowering my arm, I reply, “Oh, uh, I don’t wear them.”
“Why not?”
For some reason, his question — so abrupt and intimate — makes my own words stumble. “B-because I can never get them in. And if I do, I always forget to take them out. So it’s just easier.” Then I add, “I hate it though.”
