I will myself not to feel anything. To have his hand in mine be nothing more than the touch of skin on skin. The instant our fingers touch, though, I know I’m kidding myself.
The electric sensation that prickled through me when I landed on top of him is back, but this time it’s much more intense. My whole body hums, as if I’ve plugged myself into an electrical socket. Goosebumps erupt on my bare arms. Desire coils in my belly, slipping eager and hungry through my veins.
I steal a glance at Donovan and suck in a startled breath. His lips are parted, his eyes hot. Gone is the Ice Man who wouldn’t so much as look in my direction. His hand tightens on mine, his grip convulsive, like he’s resisting the urge to pull me toward him. And God help me, even knowing what I do, I would let him.
The rest of the human knot activity is honest-to-God torture. I’ve never been so grateful for Donovan’s superior analytic skills, which piss me off on a regular basis but at least allow our group to untangle ourselves in record speed, beating the other group by a country mile. The moment we’re free of each other, I excuse myself and dash for the restroom, where I splash cold water on my crimson cheeks and stare in dismay at my dilated pupils. I look like a woman who’s just had the best sex of her life, not an employee who was just forced to engage in a clichedteambuilding exercise. And if I can see it, so can everyone else—including Donovan.
We break for lunch, which I eat with Georgia and Jill, trying my best not to glance in Donovan’s direction. Instead, I focus on trying to assess whether either of them could possibly have played a role in what happened to my family. But they’re just so…ordinary. It doesn’t seem possible. Georgia’s ten years older than me, with two kids and a husband who doesn’t pick up his dirty socks. Jill’s unabashedly single and spends her weekends singing karaoke. Neither one of them screams “notorious Blood Witch, destroyer of worlds.”
Maybe I was crazy, thinking I could figure this out. Maybe Ella’s premonition was wrong. Maybe…a thousand things.
Maybe our next activity is Profile Bingo.
“Okay, everyone!” Rosa hands each of us a neon Post-it, then claps her hands. “I want you to write down something about yourself that not a lot of people know. Then hand it to me. I’ll type it up on a Bingo-style grid, give each of you a copy, and you’ll walk around the room and talk to everyone, matching them with their little secret. When you’re done, you’ll hand your sheets in to me. Sound good?”
I’ve changed my mind. Rosa is the villain I’ve been searching for, in perky, shiny disguise. Because somehow, I find myself scribbling “likes pineapple pizza” on a piece of paper and handing it to her, along with eleven other poor souls who have fallen under her spell. She collects all of our little slips, humming and chuckling to herself as she reads them, then types them up, prints them out, and sets us free.
Jill, I discover, is obsessed with Red Vines and the Shrek franchise. Jack, who works in HR, orders Mallomars in bulk from Amazon. Catelyn, a redhead in the sales department, designs her own board games. Gia, who’s been with the company from the very beginning, was once kissed by John Travolta.Ellen, Ethan’s assistant, has visited forty-seven countries. Thatcher, who works in R&D, can say “hold my beer” in six languages.
None of these people seem like uber-villains, or even remotely nefarious. Some of them even make me laugh. But the whole time I’m talking with them, I can’t help but be aware of the six-foot-two data engineer who’s leaning against the wall, glowering at the room at large, ignoring the rules of Profile Bingo. He waits for people to come to him, and when they do, they always wander off looking rattled. After one such encounter, Georgia leans into me and whispers, “I can’t decide if he’s hot, or just…terrifying.”
I consider avoiding Donovan altogether. But Rosa’s patrolling the room like a prison guard searching for infractions and contraband, and finally I have no choice. “Here,” I say, thrusting my sheet toward him. “X out your thing.”
He looks down at the only free box left. In bold, black Times New Roman 14-point font, it reads, “I don’t like liars.” Which, clearly, is a message meant for me.
“You know,” I say, shoving a pen into his hand, “if you were actually speaking to me, you could have conveyed this aloud, rather than scaring everyone here. And then I would have told you that I haven’t lied about anything.”
Donovan Xes through his Profile Bingo box with so much force, he tears through the paper. “Right. Like your mystical curse. And your relationship with my brother, who I saw youholding handswith. Is that what you want me to talk about, Rune?”
Tears sting my eyes. “I?—”
“Or maybe you want to talk about what happened on the sidewalk. Or when that sadistic cheerleader made us touch, before. You want to talk about that? Because I sure as shit don’t.” He pushes the paper back into my hands, his jaw a hard line.
The tears overflow, spilling down my cheeks. “Donovan, please.”
He shakes his head, his gaze ice-cold. “I don’t know what your game is, but whatever it is, I don’t want to play. Go back to Cooper and tell him that, why don’t you? Tell him he wins. I’m out. And for the rest of the time we’re here…stay away from me.”
He stalks off before I can say a word, his Profile Bingo page crumpled in his hand.
Chapter
Thirty-Seven
I stand against the wall,watching him walk away. My heart aches. My eyes blur. And then the worst happens, as it so often does when my emotions run high.
The red haze rises, clouding my vision. The door cracks open. And the undertow comes, pulling me onward.
Not now,I beg, though I have no idea to whom.Please, not now.
I can’t have a premonition here, in front of my boss and the people I work with. I can’t look odd or pass out or mumble about the inexplicable. I have to do something. But what?
Help,I think again. And then I hear it: Cooper’s voice, clear and calm in my head.
Breathe, Rune,he says.Like before, remember? Take a deep breath in…count to four…hold it…then out for eight…
I have no idea if he’s real or an invention of my desperate subconscious. And at this moment, I don’t care. All I know is that he helped me once before. He can help me again.
I do as he says, obeying as he stops counting and simply breathes, letting me listen to him, guiding me. Until, the sameway it happened before, the haze retreats. The door closes. And somehow, miraculously, the premonition is…gone.
