“I don’t know, perhaps the person you’re talking to?” he replies.
I drag my eyes over to him.
“That’s better.” His eyes hold mine and then he gives me a slow, sexy smile.
I feel it in the pit of my stomach as the butterflies flutter.
What the hell is going on here? I swear to God he’s different, but I can’t put my finger on why.
If I didn’t know better, I would even say he’s more than friendly, perhaps a tad flirty. It’s like I’ve missed part of the conversation, but I’m really not sure what it is.
“Why would you like me to look at you, Elliot?” I ask as I focus on looking at his face.
It’s been a long time between drinks for me, and by drinks, I mean sex. I hate to admit it, but after seeing Elliot Miles in his black dinner suit last week, he’s run naked through my mind more than once.
Unable to help it, my gaze drops. Just as I suspected, a thick, broad chest with a scattering of dark hair, chiseled shoulders, and a fifty-pack of stomach muscles. His skin is a beautiful glowing tan. It makes the towel look fluorescent white.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. While he seems perfectly happy with the situation, I just want the earth to swallow me up so I can die. If I stand to leave he gets a full bird’s-eye view of my body.
Warts and all.
I mean, I have a towel, but it’s freaking tiny. Why did I have to be saving space in my damn gym bag?
He leans back and rests against the wall, his stomach muscles contracting as they catch the light.
Don’t look down, whatever you do, don’t fucking look down.
Well, this is just great. I come in here to relax, and instead get a bird’s-eye view of my asshole boss’s hot body.
“How long have you known Daniel?” he asks.
I frown, how does he even remember his name? “Not very long. Why do you ask?”
Elliot’s eyes hold mine and he gives a gentle shrug. “No reason. You said that you were just friends—”
I cut him off. “We are just friends.”
He raises an eyebrow. “He’s very touchy.”
“What? No he isn’t. That’s just his personality. He’s very affectionate.”
“I noticed,” he says dryly.
I stare at him as my brain malfunctions. “Why would you notice that?” I ask. “And more importantly, why would it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” he fires back way too fast. “Merely an observation.”
This is bizarre.
If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s a little jealous. But that’s ridiculous and we both know he couldn’t be.
I stare at him as I try to unravel the puzzle. “What’s your problem?” I ask.
“No problem,” he snaps. He stands in a rush, and for the first time I get a full view of his Adonis physique.
Jeez.
Elliot Miles may be a lot of things, but I can confirm with certainty that he looks good in a towel.
Not that I care, of course.
“So, I’ve been thinking about you,” Daniel says as we walk down the street on our way to pick up our Thai takeout, his arm linked through mine.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Don’t take offense at this.”
I roll my eyes. “When someone says don’t take offense, it means they’re going to say something offensive.”
He smiles and his eyes come over to me. “What were you like before your parents died?”
“What do you mean?”
“What were you like? Did you dress different? Did you have hobbies, were you social?”
I drop my head as we walk; nobody has ever asked me this before. “I guess I was . . .” My voice trails off as I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Did you make an effort to look pretty every day?”
I think back and I nod. “Yes.”
“Were you focused on work all the time?”
I shake my head sadly. “Not in the least.”
“Did you have a boyfriend?”
“I did, but we broke up not long after they died.”
“And you haven’t had a long-term relationship since?”
I shrug.
“Baby.” He leans down and kisses my shoulder. “I’ve been wondering why someone as beautiful as you . . . acts the way you do.”
I frown in a question.
“You hide behind your grief, don’t you?”
My eyes well with tears and I drop my head. To hear someone say it out loud . . .
I haven’t been the same since that day, I know I haven’t.
I miss my parents, I miss their unconditional love. And their deaths shouldn’t be about me, but why did they leave me here all alone?
I get a lump in my throat.
I angrily wipe a lone tear away as it escapes. “Stop it, I don’t want to talk about this.”
Daniel kisses my shoulder again. “Okay. We won’t. I should have got the spring rolls, I’m fucking starving,” he says to change the subject. He squeezes my arm.
I fake a smile, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone gets me.
I twist the ring around my finger as I stare into space; I’m on the train and on my way home from work, and I’m trying to analyze the last few days. I’ve been busy and preoccupied, but for the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about what Daniel said about me hiding behind my grief.
Is that why I’m so anal at work, because the alternative is to fall apart and lose my job?
If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.
My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion and, through it all, I can’t get the vision of Elliot Miles in a towel out of my head.
I think about those muscles when I wake up, I think about them when I go to work, I think about them when I go to sleep. In the shower, in the gym, alone in bed . . . you name it, I’ve thunk it. And trust me, the things I’m thinking are going to get me sent straight to hell. Let’s just say that in my dreams Elliot Miles has spent a lot of time with his head between my legs, and boy is his tongue strong. I can almost see my arousal glistening on his lips as he looks up at me, feel the burn of his stubble on my inner thighs.
I keep fantasizing about being summonsed to his office and getting bent over his desk while he has his wicked way with me, and it’s hot and hard and sweaty.
And it goes on and on and on.
Jeez . . . what the hell is going on with me lately?
And the worst part of it is, I don’t even like him. In fact, up until a week ago I would even say that I despised him.
But something is changing in me, and I don’t know what it is or how to explain it.
My hormones are having some kind of meltdown and I’ve turned into one of those people who think about sex all the time.
That white towel is a damn troublemaker.
We approach my stop and I stand and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door, feel disappointed with what I see. I look dowdy, and so different to how I looked the other night at the ball.
Maybe it’s time.
I smile as I read the email from my place in bed, and I reply.
Dear Edgar,
Such a shame that you are not a cat person, you could have had a happy life filled with feline love.