Page 24 of How Freaking Romantic

His blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re not a lot, Bea.

You care about the people in your life. You defend them and you don’t try to be anyone other than yourself.

If anybody has a problem with that, it just means they’ve learned somewhere along the line that those things are faults. That’s for them to work out, not you.”

I try to prop up a wry smile, but it’s fragile, a flimsy defense that’s only moments away from falling.

“Don’t do that,” I say.

He blinks. “Do what?”

“Act like we’re friends or something.”

“Aren’t we?”

I roll my eyes. “We went over this in Frank’s office when you took the job, Nathan. We’re colleagues.”

The air seems to still around us as he studies my face for a long moment, like he’s trying to pinpoint exactly what caused the subtle shift.

“Right.” He nods absently to himself, like he’s considering. “And what about when the job is over?”

“Then we’re nothing. I mean, you’ll still be the asshole who’s actively working to tear my friend’s life apart, right?”

That unreadable expression I remember from his office is on his face now, like he’s seen my defenses go up and he’s suddenly donned his own invisible suit of armor. It’s such a slight change I think the average person wouldn’t even notice it, but I do. It’s uncomfortably familiar.

Except I know how my armor developed. I recognize how years of transience and disappointment required its fortification. Where did his come from?

I don’t ask. The question feels too dangerous, a Trojan horse whose answer could reveal too much, leave both of us too exposed.

“And I have a very strict ‘no asshole’ policy in my life, so…” I shrug as if my pulse isn’t thundering in my ears.

“Oh really?”

“Yup.”

He throws me a sharp smile, so similar to the one from his office the first time we met that my heart drops.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem that night outside your building.”

A deafening silence falls. The words hit a vulnerable part in my chest, the one that still feels guilty for that kiss.

But despite how much I had worried about it over the past few weeks, fretted and stressed and chastised myself, I had never assumed he would use it against me as if it was nothing but leverage.

“Like I said,” I reply, mirroring his lawyer smile even as my voice shakes. “Asshole.”

I watch as he slowly registers my reaction, how the regret flashes across his face, and his gaze softens.

“Shit,” he murmurs, his head falling forward. “I’m sorry, Bea—”

I shake my head as embarrassment engulfs my chest. God, I’m actually thankful for it. Grateful for yet another reminder of why I shouldn’t be here. “Have a good night, Nathan. And fuck you.”

I grab my coat and scarf and launch myself out of the booth, hitting the edge of the table so our empty glasses clatter against the Formica surface. I don’t apologize and I don’t wait for him to say anything. I head straight for the door and walk out into the cool night air.

My pace is brisk as I head toward Fifth Avenue. It’s colder than it was when we arrived, but I barely feel it. My anger is still too hot beneath my skin.

What was I thinking?

I already crossed a line tonight by going to Marcie’s event, but this?

There aren’t any excuses for this, no justification for sitting down and eating food with that man.

Nothing except temptation, and that only feeds my resentment.

Because even now I can feel that itch of regret for leaving. And that’s even more terrifying.

I continue forward as I pull my phone out and use my app to request a car. It’s four minutes away and I have just pressed the accept button when I hear the heavy footsteps behind me. A wide, lumbering gait that makes my heart trip at the same time as I hear his voice.

“Bea, wait.”

I don’t.

He reaches my side, and it’s almost comical how he has to slow his steps to match my quick pace. “I’m sorry—”

“Go away.”

“Jesus,” he growls, running a hand through his thick hair. Then he reaches for my elbow, a soft but firm grip. “Will you stop?”

I whip around to face him, pulling my arm away. The buildings around us are dark except for the lights of a dry cleaner across the street. It sends hard shadows across his face, his stubbled jaw.

“Is this all a joke to you?”

His hands go to his hips. “Come on—”

“No, I’m serious. Do you feel like less of an asshole when you make me feel like shit?”

He lets out a long sigh. “Of course not.”

“Then why did you invite me to come tonight?”

“I just…” His voice trails off, and it’s silent for a minute before he continues. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“Being nice won’t make me forget who you are!” I say, forcing a sharp tone that ends up sounding dull and hollow.

He stares at me from under his brow, his mouth a grim line across his face. In the shadows, his eyes look obsidian, so black and so dark they’re startling.

“Then what the hell will, Bea?”

I don’t have any words to answer him. I try to keep my chin high, my shoulders squared, but I still feel that thread fraying, my regret over the last ten minutes turning into something else entirely as bits of my armor fall to the ground.

Then he takes a step toward me. My heart jumps to a thunderous pace, but I keep my eyes locked with his as he takes another step. Then another. He’s within inches of me now, and his expression has a new, hard edge to it.

“You’re an asshole,” I whisper. It’s my last line of defense, words that I desperately want to be true, even as my body reveals the lie.

“I know,” he murmurs. His voice is so deep and strained it’s like he’s begging for the same thing.

Then he takes another step. He is almost flush with my body now; the edge of his jacket skims against my chest. It’s too close, and my body is too honest. I know he can hear the quiver in my breath, he can see the throbbing pulse point in my neck.

And the only rational part of my brain still working is telling me to touch him, to pull his body to mine and do something about this ache.

I can see that same desire there in his eyes, too. A hungry tinge to his expression as he slowly dips his head down, enough that his lips hover above mine.

“You promised not to kiss me again,” I breathe.

He stills, and our warm breath intertwines for a long moment.

“Then I won’t,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move away. A moment later I feel his hands gently slide through the open front of my coat.

They take hold of my hips, his thumbs brushing against where my sweater meets the waist of my skirt.

It’s a slow, lazy motion that belies the strength of his grip, the firm but subtle pull of my body to his.

I don’t fight it. I can’t. All I can do is lean into his touch as his hands move up so his thumbs are just under my sweater, brushing against my bare skin.

He leans in, too, resting his forehead against mine so we are both looking down at where his hands hold my body, as they continue to drift slowly upward.

God, I want to look away, but I can’t. Every problem that existed just a few minutes ago has disappeared from my mind, and all I can think about is how his thumbs barely graze the underside of my bra, how his fingers wrap around my rib cage like he’s afraid I might bolt.

His breath is growing hoarse, but then so is mine. Labored and deep, intermingling between us. And even though he’s not kissing me, everything about this moment feels so much more intimate.

Then a loud voice cuts through the air. “Beatrice?”

Our foreheads are still resting against one another as we turn to look. A tan-colored car is parked on the curb. The driver hangs out the window, his expression impatient.

“Are you Beatrice?” he asks.

It takes me a moment to straighten my back, to find my voice. “Yeah. Yes.”

“You ready?”

“One second,” Nathan says to the driver, and then he turns back to me, his face still so close that I can feel his breath on my cheeks.

“I need to go,” I say.

“No you don’t.”

I want to agree with him. I want to stay and let his hands explore every inch of me. And that thought scares me so much that I take a step back. “Yes, I do.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks as his grip on my body loosens and I slip out of his arms.

I start toward the car but within a few strides he’s there first, opening the door for me. I slide into the back seat, working hard to keep my eyes off him. Unfortunately, I fail. My gaze travels up to his blue eyes, and my heart tumbles again.

“Thanks for inviting me tonight. And for dinner,” I say, forcing a smile onto my lips.

He smiles back, tight and small. “Anytime.”

Neither of us move as a million other words tumble through my head, but none of them leave my tongue.

Finally, he closes the car door and knocks his fist on the roof, a signal for the driver to go.

And he does, propelling us down Forty-Fourth Street so quickly that I don’t have time to look back and see if Nathan’s watching me leave.