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She didn’t say anything, simply stared me down, and then rose gracefully to her feet. I did the same and took a moment of satisfaction that she had to tip her head back to meet me in the eye.
“Are you trying to make me hate you?” she asked silkily. “Will that make it easier when we both walk out of here?”
“Of course not.” I tugged my duffel bag off the ground and slung it over my shoulder, then picked up my laptop bag in the other hand. “I just refuse to accept that you’ll tell yourself some story that you weren’t acting like yourself. I think the fact that you ran and that we had this happen—it’s exactly what you needed, and you just can’t admit it.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said calmly.
As she said it, the lights in the elevator flickered back on. We both winced at the sudden intrusion of light.
But it was only a moment, and our eyes locked.
She was so beautiful it was hard to look straight at her.
But I refused to drop her gaze.
“You’re right,” I told her. “I don’t know you. I wish I did, though.”
Her mouth opened slightly.
Our time was running out, and I decided to take the risk. Gently, I touched my thumb to the curve of her bottom lip.
“You have no idea how much I wish I did,” I said in a low, urgent voice.
She sucked in a breath like she was going to reply.
The elevator started moving, and her eyes flickered.
I couldn’t define what I saw there. She did such a good job of shuttering it immediately.
This was the woman I saw on the street. Severe and sharp and impossible to approach.
My gut screamed with a desperate urge to kiss her again, just so that I could see her while I did. See her eyelids flutter shut and the blush climb in her cheeks up close.
I thought about asking for her number. Thought about how much I didn’t want this to be the last time I ever saw her. But the doors opened on the fourth floor, and a crowd of people immediately exhaled in relief at the sight of us.
A woman in the back shouted Ivy’s name, a cell phone pressed to her ear. “Yes, she’s okay, I see her now.”
With another glance at Ivy, I wondered if anyone else would notice the slight puffiness of her lips, the flyaway hairs along her face from my hands in her ponytail.
She lifted her chin. “Goodbye,” Ivy said.
“Good luck with … everything,” I told her.
Then I pushed through the crowd, determined to forget her.
Chapter 4
Ivy
In general, I was very good at following directions. Doing what I was told.
Doing what I was raised to do.
But there were a few exceptions. Moments when it felt like I was a champagne bottle that had been shaken one too many times, and someone pressed down on the cork just right.
That was my secret. I always felt the tension simmering underneath the surface. It was never a surprise to me. My skin, most days, felt fair to bursting with all the things I wanted to say and wanted to do.
But following that impulse had been trained right the hell out of me.
