Professionalism my ass.
“I’m definitely sure.” Standing and once again apologizing for having to take off so soon, I clutch my purse close to my breasts. There's some silly part of me that's afraid he’ll notice just how violently my heart is crashing against my ribcage, that he’ll somehow recognize the invisible strings constricting my lungs, and I hold my bag like a shield. I take a step away from the table.
"Afraid of—” Ash lifts his beer to his mouth, chugs half of it, then plops it down before giving his sentence another try. I feel sorry for the hangover he’ll have in the morning, but at least he’ll be able to forget his ex-girlfriend tonight. “—letting loose?”
No, I’m afraid of making a fool of myself with our boss.
"I've just got a busy day tomorrow helping my mother." It’s not a lie, but it’s also definitely not the reason I want to go. Ash is too busy mopping up a splash of Guinness with a wad of napkins to notice that my smile is forced or that Jace clenches his hand on the table. Gwendolyn sees. In fact, she hesitates for a moment, glancing between my flushed cheeks and the taut lines of Jace’s broad shoulders before she quietly glances away, grabbing more napkins from the center of the table to help Ash clean up his spill.
"You should stay," Jace says at last, his accent more pronounced because he’s forced to speak up over the background noise of the bar. “I want you to.” These are the first words he’s said directly to me since we came back to the table, and they drive me up the wall because they’re confusing.
So damn confusing I feel like the breath has been knocked out of me all over again.
I would have been perfectly content admiring the man from afar. Hell, I would have preferred it that way—the way it’s always been since I laid eyes on him over fifteen years ago—but then I screwed up by asking about his past relationship with the bartender. He responded by calling me beautiful. And then, he took it a step further and told me the very tip of the thoughts that run through his head whenever he sees me lick my lips.
Maybe he only said that simply to shock me—it wouldn’t be the first time—but what I do know is they affected me. His words had slipped right beneath my skin, beneath my veins, and had crept through my system. I don’t want to feel a reaction to him just to be rejected, so I’ll try my damnedest to watch what I do in front of him. I’ll take dry lips any day over getting worked up just to receive a monster letdown.
This is one I can already tell will keep me up all night.
“I really do need to get back to Worcester,” I tell Jace, struggling to keep my expression impassive. I crush my purse harder to my chest, flattening my breasts, and swallow hard. “But … thanks for inviting me.”
He rakes his hand through his messy dark hair and studies my features for a long pause. There's a look of sheer torture taking over his, but finally, he says, "You’ll thank me for that later, Williams." It takes every bit of self-preservation within me not to snort aloud at what he's just said, but he’s probably right.
He’s my boss.
He’ll write my paychecks.
He’s the same guy who turned me into a blushing disaster even when he was teasing me in school and introducing that sort of thing to our professional relationship might prove to be catastrophic for my heart.
I square my shoulders. "You know what? There’s no doubt in my mind I will, so maybe I should say it now: Thank you, Mr. Exley, for always being the definition of professionalism." The sarcasm dripping from my voice sends Gwendolyn's light brows shooting straight up, but I pretend I don’t see that as I narrow my hazel eyes at the smirk he gives me. Right now, I could smack that look right off his gorgeous face and wouldn’t feel a tingle of remorse.
“Something else I excel at, love?”
“Hmm.” Oh yeah, I really am seconds away from decking this guy. I cast him a smile that feels like it cracks the corners of my lips. "I'll see you on Monday.”
While the rest of my weekend is tame, I still find myself thinking of Jace at every turn. He's there, occupying my thoughts when I pick at my breakfast the next morning, shoving my bagel from one side of the plate to the other with a butter knife. A sick, twisted part of myself can't help but wonder if he’d taken another woman home last night after he shot me down. Maybe Michaela or some other gorgeous creature he'd never have to see again since there are so many other bars he can grace with his perfect beard and cocky grin.
Would he be eating breakfast with her right now? Would he touch her again after they were through and taste her ... everywhere? Hell, if it’s Michaela, maybe they pulled out their welding torches to work on new sex machines before they went for round ninety.
I choke on my coffee, drawing a deep scowl from my mother who asks if I'm getting sick. I tell her I'm not, but she still suggests I take a Dayquil before I leave for the gym.
And then Jace is on my mind when I return home from doing the one thing that relaxes me. I’m covered in sweat from my workout but still just as tightly wound because I’d passed by the rack of weight-lifting belts and clips at the gym and had immediately thought of metal waist cinchers and the wicked blue gaze of the man who designs them. As I shower, trailing the soap between the hollow of my throat and between my breasts, I ask myself what would’ve happened if I had refused to accept his bullshit about trying hard not to act on his thoughts. If I had, maybe I wouldn't be alone in a shower right now, frustrated and seconds away from opening that drawer of playthings, as he had called it.
"Fuck," I whisper aloud. "Fuck you so hard, Jace Exley, for making me feel like ... this."
I finish my shower quickly, and when my eyes settle on my nightstand drawer as I search for something to wear, I release another aggravated breath. Then, I curse Jace again just for good measure and turn my back to the set of drawers.
I can still see it in my dresser mirror, though.
Shit.
Once I'm dressed in a ratty old sweatshirt and a pair of leggings with a bleach stain on the right thigh, I find my mother in the laundry room. She's carefully sorting through the clothes like she did when I was a kid--she has a strict system where she only washes the same color together, and she still gives me a hard time about my own three load method: permanent press, gym clothes, and pale colors.