In reality, I don’t.
Pulling to a slow stop, I turn, not allowing my smile to break free. It’s hard. I’m all over Becker Hunt and his supposed respect in the workplace. ‘Calm your britches, Mr Hunt,’ I say cheekily. ‘I was only going to make some tea.’
His eyes nearly pop out of his head, his mouth twisting, no doubt to hold back the filthy look he wants to fire at me. But through the horror of being nailed, I see amusement begin to surface. He’s fighting a smile. ‘You drive me fucking crackers.’
Putting on my best warning stare, I point a finger at him. ‘Don’t lie to me again.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’
His smile breaks free, soft and beautiful. ‘Get to work.’
‘Straight away.’ I back towards the door, watching as Becker watches me, his smile stretching. It’s a sight to behold, a true happy smile. Then he robs me of it when he turns and wanders over to a nearby bookshelf, putting extra effort into his sexy saunter. It’s intentional. He’s testing me. This man is seriously an arrogant arsehole, and I wish I actually hated him. But I don’t. For my sins, I like him.
I come to a stop when my back meets the door, my eyes drifting down to that special place, seeing it tense and swell with his long strides. I can’t help it. I relax against the door and fall into a trance. He’s playing.
‘Stop looking at my arse,’ he says over his shoulder.
‘No.’ My refusal comes without thought, and I’m suddenly not looking at his arse any more, because he’s spun around, giving me something else to feast on. Something I’m now on first-name terms with, so to speak. Something I’ve been acquainted with, and my filthy mind is off on a tangent, wondering if I might have the pleasure again anytime soon.
‘What did you say?’
‘Pardon?’ I land on planet Earth again with a mighty thud when the shock on his face registers.
‘Just then,’ he says, walking forward a few steps. ‘What did you say?’
My hand blindly feels for the handle behind me as I search for the right answer. ‘Straight away,’ I stutter lamely, avoiding his questioning eyes. ‘I’ll get back to work straight away.’
‘No,’ he says slowly. ‘After that. When I told you to stop looking at my arse.’
I clam up, not knowing how to respond. He heard. I know damn well he heard, so the fact that he wants me to repeat myself tells me he simply wants to hear it again. Surely if he wanted to forget about last night, or pretend he hadn’t heard what I just said, he wouldn’t push me to repeat myself. My conclusions are only strengthening by the minute, which means I’m currently holding the cards. I’m the one who dictates what happens next, but I’ve just realised something. A significant something.
I want it to happen again.
He makes me feel alive.
Whether I’m raging at him or struggling to keep my hands off him, he makes me feel alive. My heart pounds every time I’m with him. He makes everything colourful. I keep coming back for more of the predictable, intoxicating clashes because deep down, I’m addicted to the rush of blood to my head each time he pokes me. I like the way I feel around him. I like him. Unconventional, daring, cocky but smart. Unapologetic for who he is. Passionate about his passion. A total maverick, just like his gramps said. Truly spirited. And he’s unearthed a spirit in me, too. Everything had been sucked out of me – my soul, my heart, my essence – leaving a void, which rapidly filled with sadness and bitterness that was slowly drowning me. There was no spirit. There was no passion. I had become an empty shell who existed, who went through the daily motions of life without . . . life. Or hope. Any smile I cracked was followed quickly with gut-wrenching guilt. Any attempt to distract myself, to move on, was followed rapidly by a mental beating by my conscience.
‘Eleanor?’ Becker breaks into my reflections with his soft tone, and I realise I’m looking straight through him, seeing things from my past that need to stay where they are. Miles away. But now I’m here. In my present. I should be sensible, given that Becker seems to have momentarily lost his reason. ‘What did you say?’ he repeats, starting to breathe heavily, bracing himself.
I’m going to be sensible. I have to be sensible. ‘I said . . .