Page 13 of I Love You, I Hate You
“Hey, Ms. Clemenceaux,” chirped Ruthie, the cheerful evening security guard. “I got held up for a second, but I wanted to let you know that guy is on his way to your office. I got worried you might have already left and wanted to make sure it was all okay.”
“Of course. He’s here,” she said, with a quick glance at Owen. Owen was still facing the door, hand pressed flat against it and his head hanging between his shoulders. He seemed to be breathing hard, and as she watched he curled his free hand into a fist. “And call me Victoria, okay, Ruthie?”
“Sure thing, Ms. Clemenceaux,” Ruthie said playfully and hung up.
Owen finally turned around and grabbed his suit coat, face implacable. Still shaking from adrenaline, Victoria forced herself to straighten her spine and stay put, a safe distance from him. From here she couldn’t breathe him in, clean and rich and masculine, and she’d be less tempted to run her fingers through his hair again. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, whether she should laugh at how close they had come to danger, or to gently broach the subject of what the hell they were thinking, or even to simply pretend it hadn’t happened.
Owen took in her hesitation and his face hardened. “I think we’re done here,” he said tightly and walked out, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Victoria wasn’t sure how she made it home that evening. Working any later was out of the question, her mind spinning from whatever had happened with Owen, so she straightened her clothes and smoothed out her hair before throwing a few things haphazardly into her bag. She must have walked—her apartment wasn’t far from Smorgasbord’s headquarters—but she didn’t remember any of it. One minute she was in her office, turned on and bewildered, and the next she was in her tastefully but sparingly decorated apartment. She changed out of her work clothes and ruined panties and picked at her dinner, unsatisfied, and decided to try and distract herself.
But it was no use. Victoria glared at the TV, barely cognizant of what she was watching. Her brain was fixated on Owen. They’d come so close to crossing the line twice today, and it needed to stop. She needed to get herself under control, yeah, but Owen needed to stop baiting her. She couldn’t do her job if he kept looking at her like that, and she certainly couldn’t represent her corporation to the best of her ability if she kept thinking about the way his palms felt on her skin. Her need to kiss him had overridden the rest of her brain, and that was unacceptable.
The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she got. This wasn’t just on her—it was his fault too. Him and his stupid, annoying, handsome face. Owen needed to stop jerking her around, because she’d be more than capable of holding herself in check if he didn’t say shit likeI’ve been thinking about these fucking thigh-highs all damn day.What she really needed to do was tell him to knock it off.
The rational thing to do would be to take a deep breath and talk it over with someone. There was always at least one person in the chat who was available, and half the point of their group was to talk through each other’s problems. Even if she ignored their advice, they would be good for a reality check.
But Victoria didn’t want advice. She wanted answers, and she wanted to yell. She wanted to know why Owen had walked out on her without so much as addressing what had just happened, and she wanted to know why shecaredabout that lack of clarity. She was furious he had somehow managed to gain the upper hand.
The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she was. Their first hookup was a clearly mutual thing, and whatever happened in the stairwell earlier had been two people testing their limits. But what happened in her office crossed a line, and they needed to make sure it never happened again.
She slipped on a pair of sandals and grabbed her car keys. It wasn’t a long drive to Owen’s shabby bungalow on the south end of town, and before she knew it she was hammering angrily on his door. A shadow crossed in front of the big bay window and then the door swung inward, revealing a confused—and shirtless—Owen. His black sweatpants were slung dangerously low on his hips, revealing a smattering of reddish blonde hair that trailed down to the waistband. His eyebrows shot up. “What the fuck?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said and barreled inside. She tossed her purse angrily on his kitchen table, which was just about the only clear space in the entire house. “What the hell was that earlier?”
He tipped his head to the side, eyes dancing. “I’m pretty sure that was a deposition. You know what a deposition is, don’t you?”
“Cute,” she snapped. “You know what I’m talking about.”
Owen took a step towards her and for the third time today, her pulse spiked in response. “Do I? Use your words, Vee.”
She swallowed hard and stiffened her spine. “Fine. I’m talking about the fact that you almost fucked me in my office today.”
“There, was that so hard?”
“Screw you,” she spat back, and he grinned. The son of a bitch was enjoying himself, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “We can’t keep doing this.”
“Seems like the sort of meeting that could have been an email,” he said lightly.
“You really think it’s a good idea to screw your opposing counsel in her office?”
“Maybe not a good idea, but it’s certainly a fun one,” he said, and this time she had to fight to keep an answering grin off her face.God, he was infuriating.It was even worse when he was being charming. “But is that really why you drove all the way here?”
“Of course it is. Why else would I be here?” she said, desperate to regain her footing. “You need to stop doing this.”
“I’m not trying to be an asshole, I swear,” he said, gazing at her steadily. “ButI’mthe one who needs to stop? From where I’m standing, you’re the one who drove to my house at—” he glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the microwave—“ten o’clock on a weeknight to yell at me. If you didn’t want this to happen anymore, you could have just told me over the phone.”
“I just need you to stop . . . being you,” Victoria said, waving vaguely at him. She’d never been this inarticulate in her life, much less during an argument. She should be in her element, but his bare chest—and the memory of what it felt like under her fingertips—kept distracting her.
“What, being handsome?” he said, and when she lost the battle and dropped her eyes to the trail of hair that led under his waistband, he grinned like he’d just been handed a summary judgment. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want me to look like a bridge troll so you’ll stop being so attracted to me. But I’ll tell you what, Vee,” he said, pacing towards her and using her name like a lion tamer, keeping her mesmerized and frozen in place. “I’ll stop being so damn handsome if you stop haunting my dreams.” He glanced at her chest, taking in her loose white shirt and probably the bra underneath, the bra he’d seen just hours ago, before dragging his gaze back to hers.
“I haunt your dreams?”
“I think you know damn well you do,” he said, his voice low and ragged. She kept looking at his lips, remembering how they tasted, and she had the irrelevant thought that it might be nice to justkisshim sometime, with no agenda or furious rush to orgasm. His lips could be soft and searching, and there was something sweet about the way he kissed her even when he was doing something filthy.
But kissing was the exact opposite reason she was here, and she needed to remember that. “At the very least we need to stop making out at work,” she managed.
“Okay,” he said slowly, like he was drugged. “Sure. No making out at work.” He licked his lips. “This isn’t work, though.” He reached out and spanned her jaw with his hand, his touch scorching.