Addicted(18)

Except now that I’ve given myself permission to think about him, to wonder, my stupid phone is practically burning a hole in my purse. No one would know if I checked, I tell myself as I gather up my briefcase and the sweater I grabbed this morning to combat the early morning chill that comes with working near the ocean. No one would care.

Except me. I would know. I would care. And pining over him, wondering and worrying over when I’m going to hear from him, will only make this whole situation worse. And make me crazier than I already am.

Leaving my phone exactly where it is, at the very bottom of my purse, I head out to the parking lot, calling a quick good-bye to Jorge, the security guard currently manning the small reception area in this building.

He jumps up from behind his desk. “Ms. Girard, wait. Let me walk you to your car.”

I guess the fact that Ethan and I are no longer together really is still under wraps. Not that Jorge isn’t a nice guy, he is, but I haven’t seen him offering to walk any of the other female interns—or employees, for that matter—out to their cars.

“Thanks, Jorge, but I’ve got it. It’s still light out.”

“It’s not a problem,” he tells me with a polite grin as he holds the front door open for me. “Things are quiet around here tonight.”

I want to argue with him, but I can tell by the determination in his eyes that nothing I say is going to make a difference. I give in gracefully because he’s just doing his job and partly because a girl never can be too careful and my history makes me jumpier than most.

It’s a short walk, only takes a few minutes at the most, but I’m struck dumb almost as soon as we come around the curve that leads to the parking lot. Because, there, leaning against my car—ankles crossed and muscular arms folded across his chest—is Ethan.

I stop dead when I see him, just freeze completely as my body suddenly forgets how to walk. How to breathe.

Jorge shoots me a curious look, but Ethan chooses that moment to push away from the car and prowl toward us. With his tanned skin, too long, dark hair, and predatory grace, he looks more like a sleek jungle cat than a man.

“Thanks, Jorge,” he calls to the security guard. “I’ve got it from here.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Frost.” Jorge all but salutes before turning toward me. “Have a good night, Ms. Girard.”

Somehow I manage to unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth long enough to mutter, “You, too.”

And then he’s gone, walking back along the path to the building and I’m left alone with Ethan, whose mood I can’t begin to gauge. He seems calm enough, but there’s a fierceness in his eyes—a determination—that makes me wary even as it gets my heart beating triple time. His black eye and bruised jaw only reinforce the danger rolling off him in waves.

“I called you,” he says as he stops right in front of me. He’s not crowding me, not really, but he isn’t giving me any wiggle room, either. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his long, lean body, more than close enough for me to breathe in the dark, musky scent of him with each inhalation that I take. “You didn’t answer.”

“My phone was off.” It doesn’t occur to me to lie as I force the words out of my too-tight throat. I know I sound stilted and awkward, but it’s the best I can manage at this point. “I haven’t checked my messages.”

He nods, his cerulean eyes blazing so brightly that I can’t help feeling the burn of them on my skin. In my blood.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, and long moments pass while the two of us just stand there staring at each other. When I can’t take it anymore, when the tension between us threatens to snap like a rubber band stretched too far, I square my shoulders. Start breathing through my mouth. Pretend that being this close to him isn’t painful and arousing and terrifying all at the same time.

“Thank you for getting my car fixed.”

He nods, his face pained, but he still doesn’t say anything, which only makes my anxiety worse.

“Look, I need to go,” I tell him. “It’s been a long day and I’m hungry and exhausted—”

“Let me take you to dinner.”

“No.” The word is ripped from me before I even know I’m going to say it. No softness to cushion the blow, no polite excuses. Just the loud, irrevocable negative that can’t be mistaken for anything but the denial it is.