Page 25 of Resist

He’s standing in front of me, a couple feet away, dressed in jeans, loafers, and a sweater over a shirt. He looks remarkably chilled, and dangerously handsome as he greets us with a smile.

“Fancy seeing you here.” His grin is devilish. “I brought treats.” He holds up a paper bag before placing it on the table in front of me.

Something about the fact that he’s here at theexactsame time that we are has an alarm ringing in the back of my mind, and Phoenix is entirely too relaxed at his sudden appearance. I’d bet twenty bucks that she’s behind him being here.

“Sterling.” She places her wooden fork on top of her salad. “We were just talking about you.”

Make that fifty.

“Oh?” He cants his head, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “All good, I hope.” He flashes me another warm smile, and I feel it all the way to the tips of my toes. “You look beautiful today, Cecelia.”

Every time he calls me Cecelia and I don’t correct him, something tightens inside my chest. I don’t like being dishonest, but now that I’ve gotten myself into this situation, I’m not really sure how to get myself out.

Oh, hey, actually my name is Cora Blackwell. You might have heard about me on the news. I’m inheriting my father’s publishing company but only if I get married within the next ninety days feels a little full-on, you know? Like I’m proposing to him in a roundabout way. When I’m not.

Phoenix shovels a heaped fork of food into her mouth likeshe’s trying not to correct him. My girl is ride-or-die but she hates lying or being lied to.

“Thank you.” My voice is pathetically breathy. “You look handsome today as well.”

What the fuck kind of answer was that? You look handsome today? Fuck my life. Not to be a dick or anything, but I’m an Ivy League educated woman whose father owns a fucking publishing company.

Words are my entire life. You’d think I could have come up with something a little more original than you look handsome.

Owned. Dadowneda publishing company, I suppose he doesn’t anymore. A pang of grief works its way to my heart as my lungs contract.

Phoenix pretends to choke, or gag, or makes some kind of strangled animal noise in the back of her throat. Sterling leans over and slaps her back with an open palm. “Gonna make it, Phoenix?”

She looks at me with a quizzical eye. “I think so.” She chugs her ginger ale. “Must have gone down the wrong way.”

Sterling casts his attention back to me, his appraising gaze raking over my body as he takes me in from head to toe. I feel every pregnant second of his stare warming my body, reminding me of our time together last night, and when his tongue snakes out to wet his bottom lip, I damn near come undone.

A squeak catches in the back of my throat, and as though that was the reaction he’s been waiting for, he smirks. “I don’t want to intrude on your lunch. I just heard voices and thought I’d stop by and say hello as I was in the building.”

“And brought snacks,” repeats Phoenix with a sly grin.

He heard voices. Fuck. Does that mean he heard Phoenix asking about him? Probably, right? My skin’s charged with so much heat, so much anticipation and energy zinging across the surface that I shift in my seat, cross and re-cross my legs.

“Can I ask one thing before I leave?” He’s taken a step back, like he went to walk away but remembered something.

“Sure,” Phoenix answers before I can.

“I feel like I still know nothing about you. Can you tell me something you like? Or don’t like? Something to make me feel like you’re not still a stranger?”

Phoenix makes a silent “Awww” face at me before jabbing her fork in his direction. “She fucking hates pickles.”

He nods. “I know that one.”

The penny drops with Foxy, and she nods with a wry smile—and an “I fucking knew it,” stare in my direction—“I bet you do.”

It’s sweet that he wants to know something about me. He’s not asking for my cup size, or what I like in bed, though he had ample opportunity to do that last night. He’s not sending me a dick pic or asking me to rate his hard, veiny, purple peen. He’s asking for a tidbit, something about me that connects us in a way that makes us not strangers anymore.

I sit with his request for a long moment, staring at his attractive face while Phoenix stares at mine. And he waits, like he has all the time in the world for me whether to decide to let him in or not.

He just... waits. No pressure, no impatience, no sighs, no visible signs of frustration, he just stands staring at me with those magnificent, arresting blue eyes.

“I love Meghan Trainor. And I hate egg yolks.”

He purses his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. “Just... the yolk?”

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