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“So we understand each other then.”
He unfolded arms that’d been tight across his chest. “Not even a little bit.”
“What do you want from me?”
He sucked in a huge lungful of air, then rolled his head left to right as if his neck was stiff and sore. “I want two things.”
“Great.” She emphasised the tee sound for maximum sarcasm, but immediately felt mean for doing it when he sighed again. “Sorry. You and I—it was better when we avoided each other.”
“No it wasn’t.” He leaned forward, spreading both palms on the table as though he was opening himself to her. “You avoided me because I was a big, loud, self important fuckwit and all that showed was good sense. And I avoided you because I thought you were a snob and a bitch, and a product of equal opportunity lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.”
He might as well have punched her. “Wow. Just wow. You admit you think I got the job because I wear a skirt.” She figured he’d thought that, but to hear him say it. Wow.
“Yep.”
He didn’t dodge. He took that right on the chin. “Wow.”
“I was wrong. That’s the first thing I want to say. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I’m a dickhead. You worked hard for the promotion and you deserved it. I’m a fucking sore loser and that’s all there is to it.”
She couldn’t possibly say the word wow again, but that’s what was echoing in her head, and then he went and built that echo into a roar of surprise and a reverberation of emotions she found hard to name.
“I’m worried you’re fobbing me off. The second thing I want is for you to look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not in some kind of trouble. I’ve got two sisters. I’d kill anyone who hurt them and ask questions later. I’m overbearing I know, they tell me all the time. I can’t help it. It’s in my DNA. I don’t even know you, but if someone is hurting you, I want to help you stop it.”
She gaped at him, her tongue stuck somewhere in the base of her stomach where it flip-flopped about. This was what he’d wanted to say yesterday, what he’d tried to finesse on email, and what he was utterly one hundred percent genuine about now.
“I don’t care if I’m embarrassing you, Bree. I don’t care if you hate me worse for this and never speak to me again.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I need to know and I’m not taking your polite handball for an answer.”
There was no bluster in him, no artifice, no being the big swinging dick. She still couldn’t form a coherent thought, but her hands shot out and closed over his. His eyes went down then back up to hers showing only confusion. Then he seemed to realise she was struggling and freed his hands to pour her a glass of water. She sipped, watching him, fascinated by him, while she figured out what to say to give him the truth without giving her game away.
8: Contact
He’d done it. He’d said it. Got it out. Got it all out, the falling on his sword thing, the damsel in distress thing, and she looked like she was going to cry. Fuck. And on top of that she wasn’t going to say anything. Any minute now she’d start looking out into the street and then she’d get up and leave him here, feeling like he was stuck on a sandbar.
That moment where she’d put her hands on his, tongue-tied and cornered, but finally getting where he was coming from and not feeling she needed to go ninja on him. Ah, that moment alone, was worth the crisis of confidence he’d had over her.
Now he wanted to take back twelve months of avoidi
ng, ignoring and secretly ridiculing her. He didn’t know her. He certainly didn’t understand her, but he no longer felt irritated by her. She wasn’t a snob, she was focussed and no nonsense, maybe a little shy. She wasn’t a bitch, that was just how he’d chosen to think of her to make it easier to see her as a rival instead of a real person, and then it was a perfect fit when his own ambitions were stalled. But now he saw her. She was suddenly real to him not a cardboard cut-out villain. She hated olives and anchovies. She had great shoes. She was funny. She was gutsy.
She didn’t hate him.
But he had no idea what she really thought of him and now for some reason, it mattered.
“I, ah. I don’t know what to say, Ant. I had no idea you were under the impression I was in a bad situation.”
He frowned. She was going to hedge, dodge, tell him bloody nothing. But she’d called him Ant at least. She put her hand over one of his again and it was cool and light and he liked it.
“I’m not in any trouble. No one is hurting me. I’m not even in a relationship. I fall over. It’s my own fault.”
“What?” He barked that, and of course she took her hand away. The odd thing was he missed it.
“I’m not making an excuse, I play a contact sport.”
“You.” Even to his own stupid ears that rang with incredulity.
She sighed and pushed back into her seat. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”
And he had. He’d done that thing where he led with his bloody ego and didn’t pay proper attention. Because she looked too small, too soft, he’d taken that to be her whole story, like he’d taken history to be Toni’s present and future. “I’m sorry. You don’t seem the type.”
