shut has nothing to do with Cole’s safety and everything to do with averting humiliation.
And shame.
I regret everything that happened between me and the manipulative mastermind. If I could, I’d return to the day of Cole’s uncle’s funeral and catch myself before the temptation to taunt him became too much.
Instead of flaunting my authority, I would’ve kept to my job, helping my team arrest his father instead of becoming sidetracked by the gorgeous man with the sinister soul.
My stomach flips, protesting the lie.
Goddamnit.
I can never win. It’s as if Cole’s games never stopped, only internalized. Now my thoughts wage war against my feelings. My morals battling for supremacy over my yearning.
I’m a fucking nut job in need of sedation, I’m just too stubborn to down the bitter pill.
“Why don’t we have dinner tonight?” I stand taller, determined to get a hold of myself. “My shout. We can watch a movie and have a few drinks…”
My insides do that flippy, uncomfortable thing again, warning me against a bad decision. Or maybe hating the possibility of being cut off from a long-standing addiction. It’s not like Easton hasn’t come over for dinner, drinks, and a movie every second night for the last few weeks.
This isn’t new.
“In your apartment?” he asks. “Again? You don’t want to go out and grab a bite from a restaurant this time?”
Like a date? A proper, kiss-you-at-the-end-of-the-night situation?
My brain fumbles for an answer, my hand dropping from his as my internal battle intensifies. I should do this. I need to do this.
Stockholm syndrome be damned.
Heated memories forsaken.
Instead, I wince, my fucking weakness claiming victory as I fail to vocalize an affirmation. “Let me think on it.” My pulse increases, the pull of want and need dragging me in two different directions.
He’s handsome. So goddamn handsome. With his sky-blue eyes and slick blond hair.
But he’s not what I hunger for. He’s buttered toast pitted against the extravagance of fine dining.
Poisoned fine dining.
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward his car and backtracks. “I’ll convince you while I give you a ride home. I can be persuasive when I want to be.”
2
Anissa
Easton didn’t change my mind. He did, however, order the pizza and pick the movie.
He was also the one who made the decision to sit side-by-side on my sofa, putting me on edge with his proximity.
Actually, that could’ve been my fault.
After genuine conversation and a few laughs at the dinner table, liquid courage had me plopping my ass on the three-seater with him soon following to sit beside me. I’d thought it would be nice to see what happened.
Would he make a move?
Would I like it?
I should’ve kept with tradition and maintained my distance by claiming the recliner. Now his arm is spread behind my neck, his body so close I can smell his woodsy aftershave, and I can’t handle the apprehension smothering me.
He crosses his legs, his attention remaining on the television. “You’re tense.”
No shit.
We’ve worked together for too long, our relationship kept strictly professional since the moment we met, that this, right here, feels like a huge leap into high school awkwardness.
The gentle massage of his fingers against my shoulder only heightens my sensitive nerves.
“I, umm… I’m still thinking about my shrink. I should find a new one.” I clear my throat, my heart demanding I scoot away. “You’re right about needing someone to talk to.”
This is Easton.
Straight-laced, by-the-book, Anthony Easton.
If he knew half the things I’m guilty of he wouldn’t be rubbing on me like this. In fact, I’m certain he’d be disgusted. Those kind eyes would turn feral, stripping me layer upon layer of already flimsy pride.
“Want me to ask around and get some recommendations?” He turns to me, his knee brushing my thigh. “I think one of my high-school buddies sees someone on Billow street.”
I clear my throat again, the arduous tickle at the back of my tongue growing more adamant. “Thanks. But I’d prefer to find someone on my own. I don’t want to rush into it.”
“Sure. That makes sense.”
We fall silent, my attention returning to the television where actors mumble words I don’t bother listening to as the air turns into pockets of fragile glass around us.
I don’t want to budge an inch from fear of destabilizing the atmosphere. I really don’t.
Then again, maybe I should.
Maybe I need to beat back this arduous twist of my insides and take a leap of faith.
I should kiss him. Bite the bullet. Dive straight in, getting the experiment over and done with. Because so far,