Say the Word(56)

The chime of the arriving elevator froze my hands in place, and my head swung immediately toward the sound.

I gasped soundlessly as the doors slid open and Sebastian stepped through them. He took several strides into the room, the dim lighting no doubt lending the impression that he was alone here. His expression, for once, was unguarded. With his brow furrowed and his eyes trained on the floor, he appeared distressed, as though he were waging an internal war within his mind.

I was captivated by his sudden appearance — so much so, I didn’t realize how awkward it would be when he inevitably reached the conference table and found me sitting there, practically drooling at him.

Shit. He was closing in — barely fifteen feet away.

Uncomfortably, I cleared my throat.

“Um, hi,” I called loudly, wincing at the sound of my own voice as it echoed through the empty room.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, his eyes going wide as he saw me at the table. He started and took a half step backwards — I couldn’t help but wonder if he was considering making an abrupt about-face and heading for the elevators to escape me — but eventually stilled and seemed to resolve himself to stay. Straightening his shoulders to full height, he held himself as though he were about to do battle with a formidable enemy.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quieter this time but my words flowing out in a torrent. “I didn’t know you’d be back here tonight. I’m supposed to finish these before I leave, but I’ll just come back early tomorrow morning and do it.” I pushed my chair back and stood, shuffling the messy magazines into a singular stack as fast as possible and grabbing an empty box from the floor by my feet. “I’ll be out of your hair in just a minute,” I babbled on, not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know how long this would take. I’m sorry.”

I was repeating myself, filling the silence with everything I could think of, as if that could somehow reduce the awkward strain of the moment. I lifted the stack of magazines and was preparing to drop them into the empty box when he spoke.

“Don’t.” His voice was soft, and much closer than I’d anticipated — he’d moved toward the table at some point during my nervous monologue. I didn’t dare look up to see just how near he now stood. “It’s fine, Ms. Kincaid.”

“It’s okay,” I murmured shakily, eyes still trained on the magazines clutched in my shaking hands. “I’ll be gone in just a minute.”

“Ms. Kincaid,” Sebastian said, so close I could practically feel the heat emanating from his body. “I said stay.”

A tremble moved through my entire body at his words. I had no idea what expression was playing out across my face — fear, attraction, embarrassment? — I just prayed the dim lighting would be enough to conceal my emotions.

A frozen moment passed between us. I didn’t move, I didn’t speak, I didn’t even breathe, for fear of shattering the stillness. I could feel the weight of his gaze on me, but kept my own eyes aimed down at the table.

I’d been right, at least partially, this morning when I’d thought that each interaction with Sebastian would be like walking through a live minefield. I’d just forgotten to consider that for the perilous journey through an expanse of armed bombs, I’d also be blindfolded and spun in several dizzying circles first. And right now, at this moment, I had the feeling that one of my feet was poised millimeters above the earth, a hairsbreadth from triggering a fatal detonation that would claim both our lives.

I’m not sure why, but Sebastian chose to diffuse the bomb. He moved away.

I felt his jacket sleeve brush against my arm as he passed close by my side, heading for the opposite end of the conference room table, and a shaky exhale of relief escaped my lips. I couldn’t help myself — I raised my eyes to watch as he walked and took the seat directly across from me at the head of the table. We were now separated by about twenty feet, which should’ve eased my mind but in actuality set me even more on edge. He, on the other hand, seemed completely unbothered, flipping open a file folder I hadn’t seen clutched in his hand and leafing through its contents with composure.

When he suddenly looked up and caught me staring, I dropped my eyes back to the table and took my seat. I found some small comfort in the fact that he couldn’t see me where I sat behind the tall stack of magazines, but remained largely uneasy as the minutes began to tick by in silence.

I tried to focus on my work, but sorting, stacking, and labeling only captured so much of my attention. The rest was honed on the man across the table — and on the fact that with each stack of magazines I organized and boxed, the wall concealing me from his view began to shrink. Within minutes, I could once again see Sebastian over my dwindling pile, but I resolutely tried to keep my eyes — and thoughts — from straying to him.

A half hour passed in silence.

Then another.

I began to fidget in my seat, needing some kind of outlet for the building tension in the room. Tucking my hair behind my ears, crossing and uncrossing my legs on five-minute intervals, and tapping one heeled foot against the tiled floor, I was on my way to a mental breakdown from the sheer strain of not looking at him.

And the more I tried not to think about him, the harder it was.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. My freshman year of college I’d taken Psych 101, and my professor had made my class recreate a famous study on thought suppression. In the experiment, half my peers — myself included — were instructed not to think about a white bear for five minutes. In the same time period, my professor told the other half of the class they could think about the bear as many times as they wanted. Every time a thought of the bear popped into one of our minds, we were supposed to ring the small bell we’d each been given.