“You should, Olivia,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “Because I don’t like repeating myself.”
The deepening of his voice coupled with his candor made me believe him whether I wanted to or not. His words, his passive expression, the way he flexed and curled one hand—said it all.
I am not a man who needs to lie to get what I want.
“All right then,” I said. “You’re in.”
“Do you need to run it by anyone?”
“No. According to everyone else, you’re a shoo-in.”
“And according to you?” he asked.
“I don’t really have a choice,” I said. “The magazine wants you. I want Diane’s position. If I deliver you, it looks good for me.”
He studied my face in a way that made me wonder if that wasn’t the answer he’d expected. It wasn’t as if I could come out and admit the prospect of getting to know him better excited me. Not to him—not even to myself.
“It’s your article,” he said. “If you don’t want me in it, tell me now. I’ll find you someone even better to fill my spot, and you’ll still look good.”
Someone better? He’d just lobbed the ball back to my side of the court.Your move. How would it look if I went back to Beman without David Dylan? Not good, that was for sure.
“Brian Ayers,” David said.
“Excuse me?”
“A friend of mine. He’s a local photographer, but he also freelances forSURFERmagazine. Better looking than me, and more interesting—just don’t tell him I said that. I’ll get him here for you by tomorrow.” David started to take his cell from inside his blazer. The sunlight from one tiny window was enough to make his eyes glint. “Just tell me you don’t want me.”
I wasn’t a liar—even if I sensed I wasn’t being completely honest with myself. “I can’t tell you that.”
He answered with a large, boyish grin, so pure and unassuming that I had to flex my hands against my thighs to release tension. I’d never seen a smile like that before. It made me want to laugh and hug and kiss him all at once.
“Let’s get started then,” I said, pushing down the troublesome impulses. I stood and reached across the desk to pick up my notebook. “If you have a few minutes now, I can cover the basics like career path and—”
He bolted up from his chair. “What the fuck is that?”
I froze. The sharpness of his tone mirrored the concern etched in his face—and his laser focus on my arm. I followed his gaze to my elbow and lower bicep, where fresh, purple bruises had bloomed.
Shit. I’d completely forgotten they were the reason I’d worn my cardigan today. Not only were they unsightly and unprofessional, they also invited questions I didn’t know how to answer.
I wrapped my left hand over the marks. “It looks worse than it is.”
“I . . .” His jaw set as he ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, tousling it. He stared at my arm as if physically incapable of looking away. “Christ, Olivia. I’m—I’m so sorry.”
Sorry? I cinched my eyebrows, trying to read his expression. Why did he look as if the world had suddenly come crashing down around us? Why did a few minor bruises mean anything to him?
As I waited in silence, his expression grew pained. This definitely meant something to him, as if he’d hurt me himself.
Oh.
Our argument on Lucy’s terrace. He’d taken my arm and pulled me back to face him. He thought he’d done this to me?
“David,” I started, shaking my head. I took my cardigan off the back of my chair. “No, no,no. It’s not what you think.”
He startled, then strode around the side of my desk and perched on the edge in front of me. “Let me see.”
“David—”
“Olivia, what did I just tell you?” He took my sweater away and set it on the desk. “I hate to repeat myself.”
