His Royal Highness(36)

He’s taking it all in, looking, examining, prying. He keeps his hands to himself, but he turns a slow circle in the room, curious about every single detail. I’m a specimen and he’s a scientist and I recall the very first time we ever met, when he was sitting across the table from me in the coffee shop, examining me with amusement.

I have a feeling he’s doing the same thing now.

I explode.

“We’re here now, so talk.”

I immediately regret snapping at him and I nearly apologize, but he does first.

He turns to look at me over his shoulder, brown eyes awakening a swarm of butterflies inside me. “I’m sorry for how I handled things eight years ago,” he says, like it’s a matter of fact.

“What?”

I stand perfectly still, trying to figure out if I’ve heard him right. Maybe I got hit in the head with a golf ball too.

He turns fully toward me and continues, “You’re upset with me because of how I left things back then, so here I am, apologizing.”

It doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t seem all that sorry. In fact, his tone is borderline angry. His posture is too proud for someone offering amends.

I tilt my head as I think it over.

“So if you could go back, you’d handle things differently?” I test, wanting clarification for my eighteen-year-old-self.

His expression stays neutral. Nearly bored. “I didn’t say that.”

I prop my hands on my hips. “So then you’re not apologizing at all.”

He almost smiles. “I guess not.”

Geez! The arrogance!

He shrugs. “I can’t apologize for not pursuing you back then. In my eyes, you were still a kid.”

“Kid or not, I still had feelings. In fact, I can still feel the sting of rejection when I got that generic form email informing me you would no longer be my mentor.”

His eyes narrow. “You seem to think I wronged you back then, but let me be clear. Your email was charming and sweet. However, you sent it on the company email server.” It takes every ounce of strength I have not to cringe. I hadn’t even considered that fact. “Besides that glaring misstep, there was the obvious age gap between us. What did you want from me? A relationship? You were barely out of high school. I’d already finished my graduate degree and had one focus: work. For the last eight years, I’ve barely taken the time to glance up, but now, I’m looking, Whitney. I see you. You want me to grovel and beg for forgiveness over what I did back then?” He takes a step toward me. “I’d rather talk about the way I feel for you right now.”

I hold my ground as he approaches, my chin tipping up in defiance. “That’s all well and good, but like I told you last week, I’m still the same girl. If you didn’t want me then, why should I care that you suddenly want me now?”

I can practically hear a chorus of women cheering me on in my head. Yes! Go girl! Louder for the people in the back!

His attention falls to my mouth. My lips part on an inhalation. “In spite of what you think, you have changed. You’ve grown up. This conversation proves it.”

His hand curves around my waist. When it reaches the base of my spine, he tugs me toward him. I practically stumble. My hands hit his chest and he doesn’t budge, as sturdy as a brick wall.

His other hand reaches up to cradle my chin and then he bends low, tipping my head just enough so our lips can make contact.

Except they don’t. Derek stays there, frozen. My heart is in my throat. I’m breathing so hard, I sound like a crazed animal, pinned underneath a predator. It’s not a kiss at all, but my body is reacting like it is. I sag against him, breathing in his scent: the spiced confidence of a man I’ve wanted since I knew what it meant to want. I’ve imagined this moment for so long. It’s heady. I’m screaming out for a kiss in ways that don’t require words: my fingers dig into his shirt, my hips brush against his. I know he can feel it, and yet he doesn’t give in.

Finally, he speaks, and his lips barely graze mine as they move.

“I have a theory.”

The noise of anger I make is involuntary. Primal.

It makes his full lips curve into a cunning smile. He straightens and steps away. His contact with me ends so suddenly, I sway toward him. It’s as if he’s my spine now. Without him, I’ll collapse.

“I don’t think your feelings for me are purely past tense. I think you might be as crazy about me now as you were back then.”

I chew on my anger, taking my lip into my mouth.

How dare he?

HOW DARE HE!?

“You’re wrong.”

I fling the words at him angrily, but his eyes peel away my layers of pretense. I resist the urge to squirm, to cover myself as if I’m somehow bared.

“Am I?” he taunts.

It’s infuriating to realize I have no shield against him, no way to convince him I’m not an open book. I’m a diary, locked and hidden away. Or rather, I wish I were…

I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset. No. Instead, I walk to my door, fling it open, and gesture that he can kindly leave.

“Now.”

His eyes narrow and he doesn’t move. His gaze spars with mine. Then finally, he walks over to retrieve his book and slides right past me, pressing the hardback against my chest on his way out.