Before I’ve even thought about what I’m doing I'm raking my hands through his hair. It’s like an automatic reflex, to see Art and to want to touch him. He leans back against me, like he knew I was here, like he expected that I would do this.
I blame the alcohol entirely.
And still I can’t pull myself away as he tilts his head back and fixes me with those uneven, trickster eyes.
“Hey, Nenoka.”
At the sound of that nickname, which I haven’t heard in years, I drop his head like I’ve been burned.
What the fuck am I doing? Of course, on the worst day of my career so far, my ex shows up to after-work drinks to make me go totally out of my fucking mind.
“Don’t be like that,” he calls as I turn away, his voice liquid honey. “I was enjoying the head massage.”
A murmur ripples through my colleagues as I turn back to them. I make an apologetic face.
Then, a thick arm wraps around my waist.
All this time and he thinks he can fucking touch me.
After everything.
It might be the alcohol… Okay, it’s definitely the alcohol. I’m not a violent person.
But something about Art having the audacity to show up at my hospital, my workplace, has my blood boiling.
I whirl around and land a slap on his cheek.
I’m satisfied by how surprised he is. His mouth drops open and his fingertips fly to where his cheek is reddening from the impact.
Then, a grin spreads across his face and I go back to scowling.
Art dips his head towards me. There’s a playful light shining in his eyes. All that I want to see there is regret.
“You know, people pay good money for that kind of thing, Nenoka.”
“Don’t call me that. You lost every fucking right to call me that.”
“Well, I want to get it back.”
Bullshit. I don’t trust a word coming out of his mouth… His beautiful, lying damn mouth.
“Oh? What would you do?”
“Anything.”
“Hmmm.” I place a finger to my chin and pretend to look thoughtful. “How about you go back in time and make it so that we never met?”
That wipes the playful look away from his face. “I won’t do that. But I really will do anything. Within reason, outside of reason.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Art. That’s how this works. Get me a Lamborghini and a Fabergé egg, and all memories of you breaking my heart will be forgotten.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
I push his chest, trying to forget how solid and warm his muscles feel on top of me.
“Of course not.”
He gives me a lazy, slow smile and I do not get butterflies. No, what I’m feeling is flames of rage tickling my stomach.
