Page 154 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“I’m sorry.” I say it first because I can’t bear hearing it from him.
Nothing. Silence. When I risk a peek, he’s standing in front of me, hands clenched by his side. He considers me for a moment and I cross my arms tighter.
“I’m not,” he finally says.
I frown and he lets out a long breath, running a hand over his head to grasp the back of his neck. “I should be sorry, I know I should be. But I’m not.” He pauses, chin dropped, and looks at me through the tops of his eyes. “Unless you want me to be.”
He waits for me to answer. To demand an apology. But I can’t. I shake my head and his shoulders ease a bit. Be brave. “I lied,” I tell him, and the muscles ripple along hi
s jaw, tension and concern flooding his eyes.
I let one of my hands fall and reach forward, curling my fingers around his pinky. He holds his breath. “About being sorry,” I explain. “I lied about that.” I tug, pulling him closer. “I’m not sorry. Maybe I should be. But I’m not.”
I press up onto my toes, bringing my mouth to his, taking my time with the kiss, savoring and tasting rather than devouring. And he lets me, allowing me to set the pace until we both surface for air.
“By the way, what were they calling about?” I ask, my forehead pressed against his chin.
“The engineer arrived and knows what the problem is but it will still be an hour or two until it’s fixed,” he says, smiling against me.
“Oh darn,” I whisper.
LATER I’M LYING on my back, my head in his lap as he runs his fingers through my hair, gently untangling it. I’m wearing his shirt—buttoned correctly this time—and am letting my thoughts drift over the events of the past few hours.
I start laughing and he pauses, looking down at me with raised eyebrows. “I was just thinking about those douche bags who didn’t hold the elevator for me,” I explain. “There were like seven of them in there and at least one had to pee. God I’m glad I didn’t end up in that elevator.”
“Hopefully that isn’t the only reason,” he says, grinning wolfishly.
“Definitely not,” I laugh, trailing the tips of my fingers along his abdomen. But thinking about those other guys makes me think about work which makes me remember that this right here is just a bubble.
It’s not real life. No matter how much I wish it might be.
I sit up and turn, pulling my knees up and tucking them under the shirt. “So I’ve got a question for you.” His expression turns wary but I plunge ahead anyway. “Who were you meeting at the office?” At night with a bottle of wine, I add silently.
He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable, and my stomach drops.
I honestly have no right to feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of him meeting up with another woman—if anything, the thought should make him a bigger douche bag than the guys who refused to hold the elevator for me. But that doesn’t stop jealousy from merrily twisting away at my gut.
“My dad works for the firm and it’s his birthday,” he finally says. “He and I don’t really get along but my mom asked me to make more of an effort.” He shrugs. “I figured wine would make said effort a little easier to make.”
My chest loosens with relief and I laugh, shaking my head. “So the wine was for your dad?”
His eyes widen as he realizes what I must have been thinking. “I know we don’t know each other well—yet—but I’m not that much of an asshole that I’d hook up with a woman while on my way to take a different woman out.”
“No, I totally believe you,” I say, still laughing. “It’s just that you seemed so intentionally vague about who you were meeting and it made me wonder.”
Just then there’s a jolt, followed by a loud humming. The floor vibrates and we start moving. Russell and I stare at each other, momentarily stunned. And then reality comes crashing on top of me.
I’m practically naked: wearing only Russell’s shirt. I glance at myself in the mirror and cringe: My hair is tangled around my shoulders, my lips obviously and thoroughly kissed.
I look exactly like a girl who just spent the last few hours making out with a stranger in an elevator. “Oh crap,” I mutter. I jump to my feet and reach for my clothes but the display by the door begins dinging with each passing floor. I don’t have time to change and so I just stand there holding them, feeling helpless.
The back of my throat burns. How did I not think this through? Please don’t let there be anyone waiting for us, I mentally plead.
“It’s okay,” Russell says, reaching for my hand.
Which is exactly how they find us when the doors slide open: me wearing his shirt and nothing else, clutching my clothes. Russell half naked, his hand wrapped around my own. The remains of dinner spread around us and an empty bottle of wine rolled against the mirrored wall.
Oh God, I think to myself, my stomach plummeting.
