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But because I’m me, instead of, say, thanking Ben for saving my ass or explaining what happened or even just going back to my place, my head turns to the man and says the first thing that comes to my mind.
“I’m not . . . messing around with you,” I say. Then I decide to clarify because I am a glutton for punishment. “Tonight.” His thick dark brows come together as he turns his head to me.
“What?”
“I’m not doing stuff with you. You know . . . sexual stuff.” God, why am I doing this? His brows furrow deeper in confusion and maybe even frustration.
“No shit,” he says. “You’ve been through enough. Plus, last time was a mistake.” My stomach churns with what I’ve been overthinking for two weeks.
He regrets what happened.
And while I left in a flurry, while I slammed the door in his face and never looked back and avoided him since, something about every moment we’re alone together has feltso fucking rightfor me.
Including that night in the hallway.
That night in his bed.
I hate this man.
And I want this man.
And somehow, all of those emotions—frustration and anguish and need and desire—feel so at peace with each other when directed at him. Like a part of me knows at the end, it will all settle, that the pieces will fall into place when I least expect it.
He sees the panic in my face, the panic that hedoesn’t want this.
He sees it. I know he does.
As is the way I'm learning, Ben likes to do, he takes care of me, assuaging my fear. His hands go to my face, cupping it until I’m looking at him, into his eyes that are telling me . . .more. So much more than I should see in the eyes of the man who drives me absolutely insane and who, I know I drive up a fucking wall as well.
“No, sweet girl. Not that kind. The kind where I should never have messed with you before we ironed shit out. You were stressed, your mind somewhere else. I saw it—I knew. I knew it wasn’t right. You said you wanted a distraction, and since that day I met you in your little pajamas, I knew I was fucked. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you, no matter how fucking crazy you make me.”
At this moment, I think I could fall.
I could drop off the cliff of sanity and fall into this man, lose myself there and never come up for air. Let him take care of me and comfort me and be there for me the way no one in my life ever has. Not since my mom, at least.
But I can’t do that.
I take care of myself.
I am the one person I can count on to know what I need when I need it.
“You’re an ass,” I say instead, staring at him. His eyes crinkle with a smile, tiny lines at the side of each eye and a crease in his cheek where one side of his mouth tips up.
He thinks I’m funny.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Yeah, I know. But I’m not an ass who’s gonna fuck you tonight.” He stands up, reaching for his phone. “No matter how much I want to,” he says, and a chill runs through me. Maybe I should change my stance . . . “You haven’t eaten yet, I assume?” I shake my head. “Pizza good?” He starts to scroll before looking at me. My stomach growls at the thought. Another smile, more crinkles, more belly flipping. “I’ll order from Three Brothers, have them bring it down.”
* * *
An hour later, there’s music playing quietly—I definitely made a quip about his music having theabilityto be turned down low, which made him smile—and we’re eating pizza.
We haven’t talked about what happened.
Every bone and muscle and sinew in my body has been on high alert, waiting for it to happen.
