Excitement tingles in my core, and I force my head underwater, punishing myself for where my thoughts were going.
I have a fiancé.
I’m getting married.
I’m gasping for breath by the time my head resurfaces. I need him to fuck me ruthlessly to erase Hayes from my mind altogether.
That’s all it is.
I’m lonely living away from Elliot.
That’s all.
I’ll visit him this weekend, get thoroughly fucked,and get myself back into the excitement of walking down the aisle.
When I pass through the living room, Hayes is sitting on the couch, pulling his shoes back on. He hasn’t put his dress shirt on yet, and the tattoo on his tricep bulges from the edge of his t-shirt.
Each tattoo down his arm draws my focus until I’m once again staring at the code atop his hand.
50.1.5
Are they coordinates? It can’t be a date.
“Everything okay?” He glances over his shoulder, noticing my attention.
“What are those numbers for?”
He rubs his wrist. “Just something important to me.”
“Hmm, cryptic,” I harrumph. “You know I have nipple piercings, but I don’t get to know about your tattoos.”
“To be fair, you only asked about one. Ask me about another.”
“I don’t want to know about the others.” That’s not true, but for the sake of argument, I’m standing strong.
“And I don’t want to think about all the guys who have gotten to see your tits.”
“Sucks, huh?” The venom that lies dormant in my soul, that’s usually reserved for big cases, can’t seem to stay tamped down near Hayes. “And whose fault is that?”
I don’t wait for him to respond because nothing he says will ever be good enough. It’ll never erase the past. Or rewrite it.
I don’t emerge from my room until I’m sculpted to perfection. Suit, blowout, makeup. Because I’m Liv Greenwood. Not, little Olive, consumed by boy problems or distracted by Jensen Hayes.
As he does every morning, he’s waiting by the door, holdingit open for me as I breeze past him, and somehow making it to the car door before I can, opening it before I’m able to reach for the handle.
It’s overwhelmingly annoying and downright chivalrous.
We don’t speak on the commute or the walk up to my office.
It isn’t until his arm beams out in front of my chest that I realize how unbothered I’ve been about checking my surroundings. I was in lala land thinking about my case, disregarding that I have a stalker on the loose.
“Your office door is open.”
“Maybe the cleaning staff is in there.”
He glances at me, unconvinced. “Stay right here,” he demands, and I roll my eyes. “Please,” he adds softly.
He slinks through the door, disappearing for a few seconds before he pops back into view, rubbing his hand over his chin.
