“I’m not that bad,” I mutter. It’s difficult to defend myself with Ben listening.
“You ended a date early because you didn’t like the way a guy’s hair looked from behind.”
I turn toward the window, away from Ben, so I can almost pretend this conversation is private.
“It was bizarre!” I reply. “It was like he had hair going halfway down his neck. Not long, but like…coming out of his neck.”
“And what about the guy with the weird knuckles?”
“What about him? Imagine what his hands will look like when he’s seventy.”
Ben laughs under his breath, and my head jerks toward him. “Don’t you have a single mother you can evict somewhere?”
“I would,” he replies, “but I think they’re about to make us turn off our phones.”
I sigh once more. “I’d better let you go, Keels. The Prince of Darkness here has sensed I might be enjoying myself and is determined to bring it to an end.”
“Bye, babe,” Keeley says. “Tell me how the sex was when he leaves your room.”
I hang up, and Ben turns to me. “So who’s the lucky sixty-nine-year-old?”
I roll my eyes. “Your dad.”
He smirks. “My dad is dead.”
“That,” I reply, “would explain why he’s been so pleasantly quiet in bed.”
He looks absolutely staggered for a moment. And then he starts to laugh. I’m not sure I’ve really heard him laugh before, at least not in a completely sinister way. I wouldn’t have expected it to sound so…male, so pleased, all at once. I have to swallow my desire to smile in response.
After takeoff, I load up a movie while Ben makes himself comfortable, spreading his long legs wider, his knee almost brushing mine in the cramped space. He links his fingers over his very toned stomach—again, not that I notice—and closes his eyes. If his even breathing is to be trusted, he’s fallen asleep. I have this inexplicable urge to look over at him, but we’re halfway across the country before I finally give into it. My gaze brushes over his long lashes, his irritatingly imperfect-yet-perfect nose. I wonder how he broke it and why it’s so goddamn hot to me, that small flaw. It’s like an arrow pointing directly toward his generous mouth.
“Are you staring at me?” he asks.
His eyes are closed. I have no idea how he even knew. Must be some skill he gained via his last pact with Satan.
“Like I don’t see enough of you already,” I reply and force my eyes forward.
“What are you watching?”
I pause the movie and remove one headphone. “Suite Française. You wouldn’t like it. Subtitles, big words, no explosions.”
“It does sound extremely unappealing,” he agrees. “Let me guess: it’s all about a woman’s journey to tackle her inner demons and survive by acknowledging the hidden parts of herself?”
It’s irritating, how freaking often he’s right.
“Isn’t it just the worst when movies show women growing and succeeding on their own?”
“I prefer realistic films,” he says, his arm brushing mine, his muscular thighs spreading wider.
I don’t know if I want to laugh or punch him, but that devil is in my chest, baiting me again, and it’s never been harder to ignore him than it is right now.
10
The hotel lobby is full of older women wearing purple hats, though eleven p.m. seems like an unusual hour for a horde of senior citizens to be mingling in identical attire. Based on the amount of grumbling I hear while standing in the world’s longest check-in line, the hotel is overbooked.
Thanks to both books and Hallmark movies, I fully expect the clerk to tell me there’s been a mix-up when I finally reach the front desk. You and Mr. Tate will have to share a room, she’ll say. It has a twin bed, is only lit by romantic candlelight, and there’s nothing else available in the entire state. You’ll be sleeping in his t-shirt, and he will be completely nude.
Instead, she simply tells me my room is ready. I will, apparently, not need to share a bed or somehow accidentally brush up against his erection. It feels a little anti-climactic if I’m being honest.
His room is beside mine, so we head upstairs together, fighting for space in the crowded elevator. Neither of us has mentioned dinner or drinks, which is probably for the best, given the hour. I’ve had more than enough of his quiet laugh and his knee brushing mine for one night anyway.
He fumbles with his keycard while I fumble with mine. We’ll be sleeping feet apart. This shouldn’t be a big deal, and it’s not a big deal, but I’m suddenly picturing thin walls, the sound of a stifled groan coming from his side. “’Night,” I croak, flushing. I push the door open with unnecessary force.
And despite my best intentions, I listen more carefully than I should once I’ve climbed into bed. There’s the slide of the closet door, the creak of a headboard as he leans against it, a news anchor’s low, even drone.
I don’t hear him groan even once, but God I can imagine it. I can so fucking imagine it.
I arrive in the lobby the next morning to discover Ben waiting. He’s fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, his suit perfectly cut. He’s clean-shaven but you can already tell it won’t last. He looks like a model in an ad for expensive watches or men’s cologne.
“You’d probably move faster if you’d wear relatively normal shoes,” he says, with a click of his tongue, glancing from my favorite black heels to his watch. His odious personality has come to the rescue again, squashing any transient feelings of lust I might otherwise have had.
“I don’t need to move faster,” I snap, “because I was early. And what’s wrong with my shoes?”
He holds the door of the car and climbs in beside me. “Your outfit screams accidentally sexy librarian, but those shoes belong on a dominatrix.”
I blink. Did he just imply I was sexy? It’s hard to tell, given how pissed off he sounds about it.
“These are Louboutins,” I reply as the driver pulls onto Ocean Drive. “No dominatrix could afford them.”
“I think you’d be surprised,” he says casually.
“What’s not surprising,” I mutter, “is that you’re so familiar with what they charge.”
He gives an unwilling laugh. “That’s not my kink.”
Which suggests he has a kink. I picture him handcuffing wrists to a headboard. My eyes flick to his hands, and that deeply troubling ache thrums between my legs again. I shift in my seat, trying to will it away.
“Let me do the talking today,” he says.
Ah, there’s the dose of cold water I needed. “But of course, sir,” I snap in response, and I swear to God his nostrils flare, as if he liked it. Which lines right up with the handcuff fantasy.
The air in the car is suddenly too warm. I fiddle with the front of my jacket, undoing the buttons. Ben’s eyes dart to my chest then veer away just as fast.
We arrive at the offices of opposing counsel and are shown to a conference room, where five attorneys wait—three partners and two associates, which is absolute overkill and leaves me feeling giddily optimistic for Margaret—if they’ve got three partners in here for this, they know it’s serious.