Caged (Gold Hockey #11) - Elise Faber Page 0,23

safety?

Maybe . . .

Her heart twisted, convulsing rapidly, sweat sheening the back of her neck as she considered, as she wondered, as she wanted. But ultimately, her old habits were too ingrained.

No. She couldn’t risk it.

Even if he was handsome and charming, pushy and as cuddly as a teddy bear, she couldn’t just put everything she’d worked for on the line for one man, and most especially for a man she worked with.

That was . . . stupid.

And no, that wasn’t disappointment coiling through her at her decision, sinking into her bones, making her hate that safety net she’d erected. It was sensible relief that she’d chosen to keep that barrier in place. It was. Really, it was. Sighing, she finally unstuck enough to move forward through the wide entrance to enter the kitchen, opening her mouth to tell Ethan that she’d drive him and his copious amounts of vegetables and plant-based proteins back to his house when she got out of her head enough to process what he was doing.

What. He. Was. Doing.

Her fridge was open, and he was stashing the groceries neatly inside. The junk food—more than normal, since she’d both panic-bought during the first half of their shopping extravaganza and then had thrown way more than she’d needed into her cart when he’d begun teasing her about killing herself with all that refined sugar.

Spite carbs, that was what she’d blown her grocery budget on.

But, she thought, eyeing the stash of cupcakes and chips and pretzels and cookies, the spite carbs were totally going to be worth it.

He had put away all those carbs—okay, well, he’d efficiently lined up all the boxes, bags, and trays of junk food—on her kitchen island, a veritable smorgasbord of delicious sugar and artificial flavorings.

“Dani?” he asked, turning from the fridge, a bag of apples (See? She didn’t buy only spite carbs). “You okay?”

Her throat seized, a haze settling over her—a mix of terror, hope, being touched by the simple act, and then more fear, knowing this would only end one way, and desire. And still, all she wanted in that moment was to not care that she already knew how it would end.

She wanted to find the courage to see it out anyway.

All because a man put her groceries away.

She was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked. Because that bubble had expanded without her permission, had shot forward to encompass this man and . . . now circling back to the fact that. She. Was. Fucked.

So, no, she wasn’t okay.

How could she possibly be okay?

She spun, hustled from the kitchen, moving—okay, running straight down the hall and out onto the tiny little patio that was beyond the back door. Her chest heaving, she leaned back against the cool wall and sank down into a crouch, gripping her hair.

She couldn’t do this.

It was fucking reckless.

Playing Russian roulette with her heart, just offering it up for him to pull the trigger over and over again until the bullet would inevitably fly through the air and tear through the organ.

Like it had before.

Fingers on her wrists, gently but inexorably tugging them away from where they held her hair.

Ethan didn’t say anything, but Dani’s eyes were open, staring first at the ground, then at the toes of his boots peeking into her periphery. He didn’t say anything, just waited. Probably for her to give him some explanation for why the sight of him putting away groceries had caused her to turn and run.

Disgust slid through her.

Hating that she was like this.

So freaking bad at life, at people, at . . . normal fucking human reactions.

“I’m not good at people.”

The fingers on her wrists began moving, tracing slow, light circles on her skin. It shouldn’t be a sensitive spot, not when that area spent the majority of its time resting against a keyboard, but the gentle touches set her nerves firing, made goose bumps prickle and rise, the hairs on her nape lift.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?” It was a low, husky question, one said so carefully that it slid under her defenses, threaded its way right through the gaps in the mesh of her safety net.

She shook her head, tugged her wrists free of his hold.

Her skin tingled, even after his fingers slid off, a phantom imprint of his touch lingering long after he’d sat back onto his haunches and waited.

The silence stretched—a taut, uncomfortable thing—reminding her of trying to wrestle herself into a too-tight swimsuit in a dressing room, squirming and jumping, tugging and wiggling it