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him. “You should dress like that more often.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and rocks forward onto the
balls of his feet, eyes steady on me. “Go on in. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Nodding dumbly, I fumble for the handle. With a slow grin, Zach stalks forward, crowding me
against the door. Reaching for the handle, his hand covers mine, and his head dips down, putting his
mouth next to my nose. “Goodnight,” he breathes, pushing the door open. He doesn’t move, just stands
sentinel, waiting for my brain to come online.
Finally finding my breath, I choke out a goodnight, then push past him into the apartment. I turn,
and slowly, carefully, while staring at him and those rich caramel eyes, I push the door shut and twist
the manual lock. It’s got fancy biometrics, but I just can’t get used to them.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, resting my head against the door. “What was that?”
Seriously. What was that? Why was he looking at me like that? Why did he touch me? And why is
there so much pressure on my chest?Is this what a heart attack feels like?
Dashing to my laptop, I look up signs of a heart attack, somewhat reassured to realize that I don’t
exhibit any of them. But I feel different. It’s a strange feeling, but not bad. And when I think about the
way Zach’s hand felt touching mine, it roars back.
It’s him.
He did this to me with his smile, and smiley eyes, and sweatpants. Why couldn’t he have stayed
the disapproving, aloof boss he seemed to be all week? That man didn’t bother me. He was just like
all the other people who judged me. Easy to ignore.
Standing, shaking out my arms, I hop around the living room, trying to work off the tension. When
that doesn’t work, I throw on some music and dance it out. Flailing, stomping and generally looking
like I’m being attacked by a bee.
But long minutes later, when I drop, panting, onto the couch, that pressure in my body has
released.
It’s just a fluke. Nothing more. If I’d fallen into any man’s lap, I would have reacted the same.
I’m sure of it. It’s natural.
Slapping the couch, I rise and move to my closet to figure out my options for tomorrow’s self-
defense class. I’m dreading it, but I also really want to go, and those two emotions are warring for
supremacy. I don’t know which one will win out tomorrow, only time will tell. But the idea of going
