I can’t help myself. I lean in closer. “You are so damnfull of yourself.”
His eyes fly back to mine, narrowing as I watch.
My voice drops to a furious whisper. “You think because we kissed, like,twice, that I’m interested in you? That you can snap your fingers and have me in your life,distracting youall damn day?” I snort. “Ha!Maybe you billionaires just assume you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it, but I’m sorry to inform you…”
His eyes start to glint with anger.
“…I’m not for sale.”
With that, I yank my arm free in a vicious tug I know is going to bruise, grab the door handle, and disappear into the hallway before he can catch me again. I don’t look back as I cut through the lobby, ignoring Anita as I jam my finger into the elevator call button a million times, shifting nervously from one high-heel to the other, waiting for a hand to close around my bicep once more.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief when the doors slide open, and I step inside.
The tension uncoils from my shoulders as I turn, eyes on the panel of illuminated buttons, and find the one that will whisk me back to ground level. The doors are sliding shut again when I look up and realize my relief was premature. Every muscle in my body locks into place, frozen with fear and anticipation and, if I’m being honest,excitement, as I catch sight of him standing in his unfinished office lobby. It’s like seeing Michelangelo’sDavidamidst a disheveled world of paint cans, drop cloths, and drywall dust. He doesn’t move to stop me — he just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, gaze burning into mine so intensely, I worry I’ll actually catch fire.
I somehow manage to hold myself together until the doors finally close, cutting off my view of him, but as soon as I’m alone, I collapse back against the elevator wall. My heart is pounding so hard, I worry it might simply give out, and I press my eyes closed in a vain search for composure.
Somehow, after the last half hour, I don’t think I’ll ever be composed again.
Chapter Twelve
Hot-Shit
I knock three times and wait, listening to footsteps crossing the apartment, until the door swings open.
“Babe.” Mark stares at me across the threshold, doorknob still in his hand. “Not gonna lie, you’ve looked better.”
“Mark!” Chrissy yells from the sectional. “That isnotwhat you say to a girl after she’s had a tough day. You either say, ‘would you like me to pour you a glass of wine and massage your feet?’ or you say nothing at all!”
“Hon, I don’t think Gemma wants me to massage her feet,” he yells over his shoulder, before glancing back at me warily. “Do you?”
I grimace and shake my head.
“Mark! It’s not about actuallydoing it.It’s about theoffer to do it.” She snorts. “God, it’s like he’s learnednothingafter nearly three years of marriage.”
Mark rolls his eyes. “Do you want to come in? Join the party? Do a little husband bashing?”
I step into the apartment, ruffle his hair, and grin — the first time I’ve actually smiled all day. “As long as you have an empty wine glass I can borrow,” I say, pulling a jumbo-sized bottle of Pinot Noir from my bag. “Or a really long straw. Either one.”
Laughing, Mark closes the door behind me, grabs the bottle from my hands, and heads for the kitchen.
I cross the apartment to Chrissy, who’s sprawled out on one half of the sectional like a queen on a litter, her ankles propped up on a pillow and a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on her swollen belly.
“Look, Ma! No hands!” She grins and steadies the bowl as I throw myself onto the couch beside her. “I’m not too proud to admit, I’ll miss the built-in-belly-table function when this baby decides to pop out.”
I reach over and grab a handful of popcorn, shoving it in my mouth just as Mark returns with a brimming glass of wine and passes it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, my words muffled by a mouthful of kernels.
He smiles and settles in on a chair across the room.
“So, what is it this time?” Chrissy asks. “Did you dance with an Arabian Prince at a rock concert? Seduce a handsome heir at a football game? Ensnare a wealthy benefactor in line for coffee?”
“You’re hysterical,” I mutter darkly.
A tinkling laugh escapes her lips. “Sorry. You know I’m cooped up all day. The mind tends to wander.” Her eyes swivel to her husband. “Ifsomeonewould just let me out of the apartment every once in a while…”
“You heard what the doctor said.” Mark is unmoved. “Bed rest.Minimal movement, except for trips to the bathroom.” He looks at me. “Which is pretty much every ten minutes, so it’s not like she could even go anywhere, anyway, unless she feels like wearing an adult diaper.”