“I’m here because I want to be. The least you can do is tell me if you want me here with you.”
I rubbed the furrow between my brows, not caring if I smeared my makeup. A headache was creeping in, and I glanced around the space, hoping I’d see a long-forgotten water cooler.
No such luck.
“What? Are you too concerned with your new promotion to talk about us?” He ran his hands through his hair and sat down on the bench, straddling the wood and clenching his fists.
“You jackass.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What should we talk about, then? The weather, perhaps? Or how much you hated me showing up in muddy jeans the other night?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” I said, taking a step forward. I shook my head and turned around, needing the steady pace of my feet to help calm the racing of my heart.
“But isn’t this what you wanted?” He gestured to his suit-clad form, and I rolled my eyes.
“Yes. No. Miller, please.”
“I thought—”
My shoulders slumped as he stopped whatever he was going to say. I watched him, taking in his broad form. The little lines around his eyes stood out, pulling his handsome face tight with an emotion I wasn’t used to seeing. His face usually went from elated to giddy to downright blissful. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen this expression.
The one that slammed into the forefront of my mind was when his father died. After the funeral, I watched him and his brothers crowd around Bev and get into a town car, my heart aching for the family. That evening, or some ungodly hour in the morning, a rough banging sounded on my front door. I stumbled down the hallway, barely looking through the peephole before I opened the door—and opened my arms.
He threw himself at me, nearly toppling us over, but I held on for all I was worth. We just slept; our bodies pressed closely together all night.
This moment felt like that one—significant and defining. This second felt desperate and wanting. It felt like we were on the precipice of something big. Something that would change us—for better or worse.
I wanted it to change.
I wanted everything to change.
“Just tell me why you’re here when we’ve yet to have the chance to figure out what we are,” I whispered, picking at my cuticle. The polish was chipping, and I itched to choose the boldest, most outrageous color I could find. Like a neon blue or an electric orange. Just a little something to express my individuality. Hopkirk encouraged it, apparently.
“Why I’m here? That’s what you want to know?” Pushing away from the bench, he skulked toward me. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the blush on my skin, and stepped backward until my back pressed against the wall. He was close enough for me to take in his spicy aftershave and see the flecks of hazel in his eyes.
The door behind us slammed closed, and I jumped, closing my eyes and pressing my hand harder to my chest. My heart thumped erratically under my palm as Miller rubbed his temple and stalked back to the door.
He tugged on the handle. Then pulled harder, using both hands and grunting with the effort.
“Open the door, Miller.”
“Um.” He let go of the handle and turned to me, rubbing the back of his neck. I stumbled forward, shouldering past him in the small space and wrapping my hand around the knob.
“That’s not going to work, pretty lady. If I couldn’t get it open, there’s no hope you’ll be able to.”
“Ugh,” I squeaked, letting go of the handle and stomping my foot. I knew it was stupid and immature, but we couldn’t be stuck. “I could do without the sexist commentary, please, Miller.”
“Yes. Well. I’m still waiting for a thank you for showing up.” He buffed his nails on his jacket, and I swallowed down the anger and breathed deeply.
“Just get us out of here.”
“I can’t,” he said, moving to lean against the lockers. “We’re stuck.”
Chapter 23
“Could you cutit out?” I asked, rubbing the furrow between my brows. I’d long since given up not getting my tuxedo dusty and resigned myself to sitting back on the dirty bench with my legs stretched out in front of me. Emma huffed this breathy, sexy little sound that escaped her lips and would probably smell like sweet wine if she’d come closer.
She refused to sit down, going between banging on the door, tugging uselessly on the handle, and calling for help. I shut up after referring to her as a damsel in distress—big mistake, that was—but it was time she took a break.
