He smiles and his eyes come over to me. “What were you like before your parents died?”
“What do you mean?”
“What were you like? Did you dress different? Did you have hobbies, were you social?”
I drop my head as we walk; nobody has ever asked me this before. “I guess I was . . .” My voice trails off as I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Did you make an effort to look pretty every day?”
I think back and I nod. “Yes.”
“Were you focused on work all the time?”
I shake my head sadly. “Not in the least.”
“Did you have a boyfriend?”
“I did, but we broke up not long after they died.”
“And you haven’t had a long-term relationship since?”
I shrug.
“Baby.” He leans down and kisses my shoulder. “I’ve been wondering why someone as beautiful as you . . . acts the way you do.”
I frown in a question.
“You hide behind your grief, don’t you?”
My eyes well with tears and I drop my head. To hear someone say it out loud . . .
I haven’t been the same since that day, I know I haven’t.
I miss my parents, I miss their unconditional love. And their deaths shouldn’t be about me, but why did they leave me here all alone?
I get a lump in my throat.
I angrily wipe a lone tear away as it escapes. “Stop it, I don’t want to talk about this.”
Daniel kisses my shoulder again. “Okay. We won’t. I should have got the spring rolls, I’m fucking starving,” he says to change the subject. He squeezes my arm.
I fake a smile, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like someone gets me.
I twist the ring around my finger as I stare into space; I’m on the train and on my way home from work, and I’m trying to analyze the last few days. I’ve been busy and preoccupied, but for the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about what Daniel said about me hiding behind my grief.
Is that why I’m so anal at work, because the alternative is to fall apart and lose my job?
If I don’t look pretty, nobody will notice me . . . and my heart can never get broken again.
My mind is a clusterfuck of confusion and, through it all, I can’t get the vision of Elliot Miles in a towel out of my head.
I think about those muscles when I wake up, I think about them when I go to work, I think about them when I go to sleep. In the shower, in the gym, alone in bed . . . you name it, I’ve thunk it. And trust me, the things I’m thinking are going to get me sent straight to hell. Let’s just say that in my dreams Elliot Miles has spent a lot of time with his head between my legs, and boy is his tongue strong. I can almost see my arousal glistening on his lips as he looks up at me, feel the burn of his stubble on my inner thighs.
I keep fantasizing about being summonsed to his office and getting bent over his desk while he has his wicked way with me, and it’s hot and hard and sweaty.
And it goes on and on and on.
Jeez . . . what the hell is going on with me lately?
And the worst part of it is, I don’t even like him. In fact, up until a week ago I would even say that I despised him.
But something is changing in me, and I don’t know what it is or how to explain it.
My hormones are having some kind of meltdown and I’ve turned into one of those people who think about sex all the time.