Tangled (The Tangled Series)(19)

I bring my chin down, wanting to taste her mouth again. But instead of her lips…I make contact with her palm. I open my eyes to find her hand covering my mouth, blocking me. Her chest is heaving, rising and falling in brisk, rapid pants.

And then I see her eyes. And I feel like I just took a wrecking ball to the chest. Because her eyes are wide with panic…and confusion. I try to say her name, but it’s muffled by her hand.

I hear a sob in her voice as she says, “I can’t do this, Drew. I’m sorry. Billy…this job…this is my life. My whole life. I…I can’t.”

She’s trembling. And suddenly, my need, my lust, and my still-raging hard-on are all pushed to the backburner, behind the overwhelming desire to comfort her. To tell her it’s okay. Everything will be all right.

Anything. I’ll say anything to take that look off her face.

But she doesn’t give me the chance. The moment she takes her hand off my mouth, she runs out the door. And she’s gone before I can draw a breath. I should go after her. I should tell her it’s okay that she put the brakes on. That this hasn’t—and won’t—change anything. Though that’s one big fat lie, and we both know it, don’t we?

But I don’t follow Kate. And the reason is simple: Have you ever tried to run with a boner staring up at you?

No?

Well, it’s damn near impossible.

I collapse onto the couch and rest my head back. Looking up at the ceiling, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers. How is it that something as simple as sex just became so frigging complicated? I don’t know either.

Christ, I’m so hard. I want to cry—I’ll admit it. I’m not ashamed. I want to weep from the throbbing ache in my groin that will have no relief. The idea of going out and finding a substitute for Kate never even enters my head. Because my dick knows what my brain is just starting to admit.

There is no substitute for Kate Brooks. Not for me. Not now.

I look down at the tent in my lap. The one that shows no indication of going down any time soon.

It’s going to be a long, long night.





Chapter 8

THE NEXT DAY, Kate doesn’t come into the office until eleven o’clock. I don’t need to tell you that this is unusual for her.

She’s avoiding me. I know this because I’ve done it myself on more than one occasion. Discreetly sneaking over to the other side of the club when I happen to vaguely recognize one of my previous hook-ups. But to actually be on the receiving end of this? It sucks.

I don’t get the privilege of speaking with her until two, when she comes striding into my office—looking drop-dead gorgeous. Her hair is pinned up in what Alexandra would call a French twist. She’s wearing a black dress that flows out slightly at the knee, with matching high heels and a black blazer.

She puts a small stack of poster board on my desk, her charts and graphs shrunk down to notebook-size like we agreed. “Okay. You’re right. You should lead with Anderson. I’ll be second chair.”

She talks like nothing ever happened. Like she wasn’t quivering in my arms and setting me on fire with her hands in this very office just a few short hours ago. She’s all business. Completely unaffected. And it pisses me off.

Badly.

Indifference is not exactly a reaction I’m used to from women. Frankly, it’s a little hard to take.

I feel my jaw clench as I tell her, “Good. That’s the best way to go.”

Now, if you haven’t guessed, I’m not the touchy-feely type. I’m not one to talk my feelings to death like some New Age, meditating freak of nature. But I expected something from her. Some acknowledgement of what happened last night—of the attraction that’s still pulling at both of us. I thought she would be the one to bring it up.

She’s a woman, after all.

When all I get is silence, I can’t help but push. “Kate, about last night—”

She cuts me off. “Last night was a mistake. It will not happen again.”

Do you know anything about child psychology? No? Well here’s a lesson for you. If you tell a kid they can’t do something, guess what’s the first thing they’re going to try and do the minute you’re not looking? Exactly.

Men are the same way. It’s so going to happen again. But she doesn’t need to know that at the moment.

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

She whispers, “Fine.”

Fine’s a funny word, don’t you think? I don’t think there’s another like it in the English language that says so much while actually saying so little. How many wives have told their husbands, “I’m fine,” when they really mean, “I want to cut your balls off with a butcher knife”? How many men have told their girlfriends, “You look fine,” when they really mean, “You need to go back to the gym and work out—a lot.” It’s the universal way of saying we’re just peachy—when we’re really anything but.

“Fine,” I repeat, looking down at the papers on my desk.

And then she’s out the door, and I spend the next ten minutes staring after her, replaying last night over and over in my mind.

Hey, you know another word that can mean the opposite of what it’s supposed to?