Page 13 of Miss Behaved
“Just because I can forgive doesn’t change what this is.”
“Which is?”
“We’re colleagues.”
On the list of things I’d like for Monica to be, colleagues is pretty much at the bottom of it. Even enemies would be better, because at least that would mean she felt enough to have some skin in the game. But being work-zoned? That stings.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them. But instead of taking the question back, I leave it out there, because I want to know the answer. I need to know if she’s pushing me away because there’s someone else, or because she doesn’t trust whatever this is between us when we’re within five feet of each other.
Monica frowns, and her eyes dart away. “No” is all she says, but I get the feeling there’s a bigger story behind that expression. Just the idea of a man hurting her makes me clench my fists.
Like you have a right to talk after what you did.
“I should mingle for a minute before I head back,” Monica says with a tight expression.
“Got to please the masses.” I smile.
Monica nods. Her eyes are fixed on me, and they drill right in.
“Right.” I finish off my drink, but it doesn’t dislodge the lump in my throat. “Well, I hope you have a good night, Mon. It’s good to see you.Really.”
She tips her head the slightest and looks at me, but I turn to walk away before she can get a word out.
I could stay, press for more time, a longer conversation. Maybe even convince her to sit down at a table with me and catch up on our lives. But for the first time in ten years, I’ve got the urge to not let this burn hot until it runs cold. I want to take it slow, tread careful, see where it goes. Because even though it’s been a decade, the same terrifying thought pulses through me:
I’ll always want her, whether it’s what’s good for her or not.
6
Monica
Today,Iwillembracemy inner voice. I will rediscover my passion for writing. And I will not, under any circumstances, think about a certain chiseled blonde whose mouth may have made a little appearance in my dreams last night.
Darn him. I’m still hot between the thighs just thinking about it, and now is not the time or the place.
I got to the seminar early to snag a seat up front. Most people like the back, but not me. I want to see everything, absorb every word, let this conference pull me out of my thoughts and help me find peace in what I love.
Writing.
Five minutes before it starts, the room finally starts to fill. I’m halfway through my bagel and arranging my laptop when my senses are overwhelmed by a certain rustic pine scent.
“This seat taken?” Carson asks.
He looks even better this morning. His stubble is still untrimmed, and his hair is wild like he just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing a T-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, and I want to reach out and lick his rolling biceps.
Carson chuckles, snags a strawberry off my plate, and pops it into his mouth. “You okay, Mon?”
“Yes. Tired, that’s all.” I rest my forehead in my hand and scribble something, letting my hair curtain over my face before he catches me blushing.
“Figured you were the type to sit in the back of the class with the troublemakers,” I say to him, not looking up.
He laughs under his breath. “If it’s trouble I’m after, I’m pretty sure I’m in the right spot.”
I can’t help but slide my gaze in his direction, peeking through my curls to catch him watching me with that heart-stopping smile. Trouble, danger, disaster. Carson is all of those things. Warning signals might as well be sending express messages to my head.
If only my body would listen.
I slip out my phone and shoot off a text to my best friends, Kennedy and Luce.
