My eyes begin to burn they’re so focused on him, but I refuse to blink. To look away. And I will endure the torture and thrill of his presence all day. I’m armored up. My war paint is on. “I won’t submit,” I say evenly.
His expression doesn’t waver, and he settles back in his chair, getting comfortable. Talking without talking. That is, until he speaks. “Why are you here, Beau?” he asks again. “I’ve spent all night wondering, and I’ve come up blank.”
“You tell me,” I say quietly, held prisoner on the spot, his icy eyes darkening by the second.
He hums, blinking slowly. My pulse quickens. “You’re here to paint my office. Why else would you be here?” He stands and rounds his desk, passing me. “So get on with it.”
My head turns, following him to the door. “Asshole,” I breathe quietly.
“You have no idea,” he replies without looking back, shutting the door loudly.
I bite my lip and approach the glass on light feet, coming to a stop only a foot away from the door. “I can hear you breathing,” I say, my voice throaty, as I reach for the frosted pane and lay a palm on it. “And I feel your heat.” My eyes dart before me, my mouth spewing words before my brain is engaging.
“Does that mean you want to fuck me?” he asks, and suddenly the door isn’t frosted anymore, but crystal clear. And James is on the other side, a whisper away.
I inhale and pull my hand back, truly feeling the burn. And I retreat. Away from the door. Away from the temptation.
Away from the danger.
I don’t need to answer him. I’ve never wanted anything more, and judging by his wicked, half-smile as the glass frosts again, it’s clearly written all over me.
My body aches perfectly by the time I’m done undercoating the baseboards, and it feels so good. I rub the back of my neck as I look at the ceiling, studying the endless tiny, awkward spotlights. I set up my ladder and take the steps, reaching for one of the spotlight encasements and wriggling it. It pops out, giving me just enough room to swipe my brush around it. I nod, satisfied, and lift one foot from the ladder, leaning back, pulling three of the four legs off the floor. And I spin it, letting the legs lower back down slowly by counter-balancing the weight with my body. I come to rest under the next spotlight and reach up to pop the encasement off before performing the same move to get me to the next spotlight. In just ten minutes, I remove a quarter of the spotlight encasements ready to paint around tomorrow.
I descend the ladder and fold it up, propping it against the wall before crouching to tidy up, setting everything in the corner out of his way and folding up the sheets. I dust my hands off and stand, finding James perched on the edge of his desk, his palms wedged into the glass, his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. When did he come back? “What?” I ask. “What are you looking at, James?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he murmurs, sounding truly perplexed. “What was all that?” He motions to the ladder and then the ceiling.
Oh . . .
He must have felt like he’d stepped into a circus. “I didn’t realize you were in here.” It’s all I have.
“Very Lara Croft,” he whispers, and my eyes undeniably widen. “I’ll be downstairs.” He pushes away from the desk and slowly wanders out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
I stare at the glass, my brain bending. Lara Croft? I go after him, fueled by irritation, and find him in the kitchen. “What was that?” I ask, sounding hostile and uptight.
He slowly lowers a glass of water to the countertop. “What?”
I swallow, biting my lip. Do I even want to get into this? Explain? Could it be a coincidence? “Nothing.” I’m not risking it. I force my eyes from his and collect my handheld vac so I can clear up the last few bits of dust and debris.
“What are you doing?”
I hold up the vac, like, what on earth do you think I could be doing? “I haven’t got the same level of sucking power as my friend here.” I recoil in an instant. Where the fucking hell did that come from? “I mean . . .” I’m at a loss.
His lip quirks as he turns, opening the fridge, and I roll my shoulders to rid them of the lingering goosebumps, my focus rooted on his shirt-covered back.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks.
“No, thank you.”
He ignores me again and slides a bottle of beer toward me. “Have one.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
I could give him a million reasons why not. My brain just won’t enlighten me as to what those reasons are right now. I’m blank. Mute. Melting under the pressure of his stare once again. I’ve never seen such sharp eyes before. They’re hard. Icy. Piercing.
Completely fucking captivating.
So, he’s finished work for the day? “You must have plans.”
“Like what?” he tosses back, his face willing me to go there. The more time I spend with him, the more I’m convinced he knows that I saw him in his bedroom with that man and woman. I will not go there.
I retreat before my mind can convince me to accept. “Good night, James.” I turn and walk away, and the elevator opens before I press the call button. Goldie steps out.
“Goldie,” James says from the kitchen. “Can you drive Beau home?”
“No,” I pipe up, stepping into the elevator and pressing the button. “I’ll walk.” I need the air.
“If you insist.”
“I do.” The doors close and I collapse, exhausted by another day battling enticement and curiosity. I can’t believe I’m willingly putting myself through this. But the alternative is putting myself through something else. I’m beginning to wonder which is more torturous.
I dial Reg. “Please tell me Dolly’s ready,” I plead, needing my car back, if only so I don’t have to endure more silent rides with Goldie.
“She’ll be ready to collect in the morning. I’ve a few hours left on her.”
“Thanks, Reg. I’ll be there at eight.” I hang up and head for Walmart. It’s a long walk—two hours, at least—so when I finally make it there, it’s suitably empty.
I roam up and down the aisles tugging along the basket, tossing in random things. By the time the speakers announce my five-minute warning, I have a mango, six rolls of toilet paper, a foot scrub, a nail file, and a nail polish in a new shade of gunmetal gray. I head for the checkout and unload.
“Beau?”
I freeze mid-lift of the nail file, my heart sinking, and I instinctively pull my shirtsleeve down to the palm of my hand. It takes every ounce of strength in me to turn and face him. “Ollie,” I breathe, coming face to face with my ex-fiancé. I haven’t seen him since he visited me in hospital when I explicitly told him not to. He looks just as I remember. Clean-cut. Shaven. On the bulkier side of muscular. He’s in plain clothes. Like me, Ollie aced his Phase 1 Test. Unlike me, he made it into the FBI.
He takes me in for a long while, and I hate it. I hate that he’s assessing me, both physically and mentally. “How are you?” I ask for the sake of it. I know because Nath takes it upon himself to tell me. I take no pleasure in single-handedly humiliating this man by leaving him at the altar, not to mention breaking his heart. Guilt. So much fucking guilt.