Page 25 of Bad Situation

Instead of doing what I needed to do—work on damage control with Birmingham because of the damned allegations—all I’ve been able to think about is Eli sweaty and Eli in the shower. I need to get my head together and not act like a goofy sophomore in high school when the star senior quarterback glances at her in the hall between classes.

When I opened my door an hour ago, Eli was standing there holding two large, brown paper sacks and a six-pack of beer dangling from a finger. I opened my mouth to greet him, but he interrupted. “This is how it’s going to go. We’re not going to talk about your case, your job, or your company. We’re not going to talk about my job or anything that has to do with the FBI. I’m skatin’ a line being here and I know it. But since I don’t mind skatin’ that line and I really want to see the woman who caused me to lose my mind, I’m here.”

I don’t like people telling me what to do but I bit my lip and let him. He went straight to my kitchen where he proceeded to unpack more food than two people should consume in a day.

We sat on my sofa and ate dinner while watching the Mavericks. I chose a shredded chicken chimichanga drizzled in a sour cream sauce and a mountain of chips, salsa, and queso. I assumed Eli had a good workout because, along with the carne asada he inhaled, he had two tostadas and an enchilada. The fajitas, burrito, and quesadilla went untouched.

We haven’t said much since we settled into our meal and basketball. All I do is work and since Montgomery Industries, my recent drama with the feds, and his job are off the table as far as conversation goes, finding a topic to broach is as awkward as walking into a men’s restroom on accident. And I know this because I did it once at the airport when I had to fly commercial because I was so engrossed in a business call.

Setting my mostly empty plate on the coffee table, I reach for my Shiner and tip it to him. “I see you’re immersing yourself in our rich, Texas culture. Shiner and Tex-Mex—it doesn’t get better than this unless you add a blue margarita.”

“I’ve only been here ten days and I don’t go for sweet drinks.” He wipes his mouth before shoving another forkful of enchilada between his lips.

“Since all work topics are off limits, can we talk about you moving here from New York? Is that where you’re from?”

He shakes his head and swallows. “Nope. Chicago.”

Eli keeps eating and after taking another swig of my beer, I offer, “I grew up in a little town.”

His fork stops halfway to his mouth and he looks to me. Those dark eyes narrow slightly when he admits, “I know.”

I figured as much, so I keep going to make my point. “I have an older brother and a younger sister.”

“Know that, too,” he mumbles as he chews.

“I went to SMU.”

“Yep,” he confirms this knowledge.

I narrow my eyes. “I made the Forbes Forty Under Forty list of the most powerful business people last year.”

He has the decency to swallow this time and while reaching for his beer, he smirks. “I enjoyed that article. Congratulations on making the list, by the way. That’s a big deal.”

I lean back into the arm of my sofa where I’m sitting, feet to my ass, facing his side. I’m not sure if it’s recent events—knowing I’m being investigated by the FBI and having been charged with wire fraud and insider trading—but him knowing everything about me is unnerving. My parents raised us to appreciate our privacy—even protect it with everything we can. Not to mention, this is not the way I’d like to get to know a man and especially not the way I want him to get to know me.

“Well, did you know that I was number one in my age group two years running when I was in high school for equestrian jumping in the English category?” I watch him wipe his mouth and toss his fork onto his plate, when I add, “I didn’t go to the Olympics or anything. It was only in the DFW metro.”

Setting his plate on the coffee table with mine, his smirk swells into a smile and his eyes heat. Hitching a leg, he turns toward me and he’s so close, he doesn’t have to reach far to trace the top of my bare foot with his index finger as he lowers his voice. “I didn’t know that. It’s almost as impressive as the Forbes list.”

I barely shake my head and take a deep breath, trying not to like him so close, like he was during the first moments we met. Even so, I’m straight with him just like I am with everyone. “My point is, I don’t like how you’ve gotten to know me—how you know things about me I’d never tell someone I just met.”

He loses his smile and his light touch on my foot turns into a heavy grip around my ankle, but not in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. If a touch could be an apology, his would be on his knees in a grovel. But his words don’t back that up. Instead, he whispers, “Tell me something else I don’t know.”

I take in a big breath. “The night we met? I don’t enjoy going out like that anymore. I barely enjoyed it in college.”

He nods once. “We have that in common, then.”

“Really?” I can’t help it, I feel myself frown. “I figured that was just an act since you were working and I was your target.”

“Jen,” he bites out. “We can’t talk about that.”

It doesn’t matter how much I like him here, he’s crazy if he thinks he can waltz into my home and police the conversation. Especially when I’m reminded constantly how he investigated me and knew who I was the first night we met but pretended he didn’t, making me feel like the butt of some sick joke even though he’s halfway explained it. Pulling away from his touch, I put my feet to the floor and grab our dirty dishes.

As I’m stuffing them in the dishwasher with more force than they rightly deserve, his long, jean clad legs appear in front of me. When I stand, he crosses his arms and his expression mirrors what it looked like the moment I saw him standing in Montgomery Industries when my nightmare began.

I’m not sure it matters how I feel about him. I don’t know if I can do this. I should tell him to get the fuck out. Scream that I have an army of highly-paid attorneys on my side and I don’t need his help.

I should be angry.

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