Page 23

“Yes. He was only trying to help me. Protect me.”

“And what do you think I’m trying to do?”

Through my teeth, I say, “Break me.”

He doesn’t reply. Minutes tick by on the antique wall clock. Tick. Tick. The sky is overcast, the normally bright room shadowed. I consider whether or not I’m still dreaming. Tossing and turning in my bed, trading one nightmare for another.

Absorbed in my chaotic thoughts, I don’t notice Chastain has moved until I feel his hands on my jean-clad knees, spreading them apart. I stiffen, my eyes snapping of their own volition to his face. He takes advantage of my pause, settling between my legs. Closer than he’s ever been.

Not nearly close enough.

“Give me your hands,” he says, offering both of his, palms up.

“What are you doing?” I breathe.

He says nothing, watching me and waiting. The glasses are gone, and his eyes are soft and a little wary. His pulse jumps against the skin of his throat. Like candy I want to suck.

I put my cold fingers in his warm ones.

Slowly, he lifts my hands to his head. Even with him kneeling, my arms aren’t quite long enough to reach. I hold my breath as he moves forward until we’re nearly chest to chest.

His breath teases my cheek. “Go ahead, Amelia.”

I don’t recognize the whimper that comes from me as I sink my fingers into his perfect hair. It’s softer than I imagined, barely any product in it. I drag my fingernails across his scalp, tugging and twisting the strands. He sucks in a breath, his eyes closing and chin dropping.

I take hair in my fists and yank his face up. Startled eyes meet mine. More than anything, ever, I want to kiss him.

“Don’t,” he says.

For some godforsaken reason, I listen. With a final tug on his hair, I release him and sink back into my chair. He lowers onto his heels, eyes still wide and startled, like he doesn’t understand what just happened. Dark hair in wild disarray. Hands clenched on his knees.

By his dilated pupils, I assume he’s hard beneath the concealing flaps of his jacket. The thought doesn’t thrill me like it should. Instead, I feel unsettled.

“I still don’t trust you,” I say, because the moment is too real. Too heavy.

Hadn’t I wanted this?

I had, but I don’t anymore.

“You’re making me crazy,” I add.

Chastain moves to his feet, turning quickly. Long strides carry him around his desk, where he sits heavily in the rolling chair. I watch him stare blankly at the desk until I can’t stand the silence anymore.

“I can hold my breath for two minutes and twenty-three seconds.”

He looks up. “Yes, I know.”

My eyes narrow. “Fucking Jameson. Did he tell you my favorite food, too?”

“Ceviche,” he says with a twitch of lips.

My own mouth curves. “Favorite movie?”

He grimaces. “Reservoir Dogs.”

“Hey! It’s a great movie!”

He laughs. Really laughs, his head tilted back and shoulders shaking. My smile grows until my cheeks ache.