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That only leaves me more self-conscious than ever about the employees in the office whispering a little too loudly behind our backs. I can already imagine their comments, blabbing about how the girl with the magic touch finally revived the dead fish—fish, really?—and about how I am, apparently, quite fucking whipped.
First, I’m no one’s simp. Not even Elle’s.
Second, I shouldn’t react, when this is all still pretend.
It leaves me feeling embarrassed nonetheless, and Elle’s blushes and body language have made it clear she feels the same.
She still looks flustered as Merrick starts the car.
I offer an olive branch to the silence.
“Are you really making me watch a film called Winnie-the-Pooh: Blood and Honey? Hardly sounds appropriate for a children’s franchise.”
She snickers. “That’s the point! It’s awful but it’s also pure camp. And since Winnie-the-Pooh is now public domain, people can do anything they want with the brand. I’m not watching it because I’m a big horror buff. I’m interested in the artistic freedom when copyright laws get loosened up.” She flashes me a wickedly amused look. “Plus, a lot of people go to bad movies just to have an excuse to make out in the dark without missing anything important.”
The copyright mention sobers my dick up, thinking of the case with Marissa.
Not enough.
Every time her hand touches my arm, her shoulder brushes me, her apple-sweet hair teases me, I remember how her mouth surrendered to mine.
Her heels digging into the small of my back.
How burning hot she was inside—so tight, so wet, gripping on me like she never wanted me to pull out.
I keep those thoughts to myself, letting Elle tease me as she pleases on the ride to the Thornton Place theater, just twenty minutes from the Space Needle and with a clear view of the spire jutting up to the dark, reddening sky.
She’s still fucking impossible.
I’m just not sure when I stopped minding.
At the theater, I help Elle out while Rick pulls away to park. Elle slips her hand into mine so easily, not even seeming to notice that she’s done it—or the way my fingers reflexively tighten on hers.
She looks over her shoulder, watching the car pull away. “So he’s just going to wait in the car while we watch a movie?”
“He’ll likely run a few errands, or enjoy dinner somewhere. I don’t police what he does with his time while he’s waiting to pick us up again. Let the man enjoy himself.”
“You billionaires are so weird.”
Damn it, I smile and look down at the top of her head. More butterflies, this time little paper-craft things woven into her hair.
“You don’t like to wear the same look twice, do you?”
Elle tilts her head up to me with a soft, startled sound and shrugs. “I like trying different things. It’s fun. And if I look awful one day, who’ll notice?”
Me.
Very much me.
I really do need to stop.
Right fucking now.
Before this spins too far out of control to ever rein it in.
We join the crowds streaming into the theater but skip the line. I pass my phone over a QR code scanner, and we’re waved through.
A question about concessions gets a wrinkled nose about syrupy Coke and greasy movie theater butter, so we skip it. As we make our way down for what promises to be a ghastly film I cannot believe I let this woman talk me into, I ask, “How did things go with Aunt Clara today?”
