Page 4 of I Almost Do

“Your dad’s fear rubbed off on you, too, even when your logical brain says it doesn’t make sense. It’s natural. You were raised by someone who’s convinced the outside world is a constant threat. But you wouldn’t be alone. I’d be there with you. And I know for damn sure he’d send your freaking security detail. Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

“It’s not about something actually happening to me. He needs me. I can’t be selfish and leave him alone.”

“Who told you it would be selfish to live your own life?”

I’m saved from answering by a knock at the door.

Turning my head, I call, “Come in.”

No one besides Dad or our housekeeper, Julia, ever comes up here. So, for a moment, my brain doesn’t compute what I’m seeing when the door swings open.

The man standing there is the absolute last person I expect to see in my bedroom doorway. For a moment, I just lie there in stunned silence.

This feels like some one-of-a-kind event. I want to point a fan at him so his dark hair blows in the wind. Would he notice if I film him walking toward me in slow-mo?

Yes, of course he would. I’ve made the man uncomfortable enough over the years with my particular brand of hero worship. I’ve made a very big point of not giving away my ridiculous crush since his initial rejection and avoidance of me—for both our sakes.

But here he is. The subject of my previous high school heart doodles. The youngest CFO in Harcourt’s history and my dad’s best friend… James Mellinger is in my bedroom.

I drop the phone onto my face with a squawk, and he lurches farther into the room as if he’s about to reach for me. He stops about a foot from the bed and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Are you all right, Clare?” His voice is a little gruff.

I rub my cheekbone and climb out of my bed to stand, smoothing down my shirt as I go. I’m still dressed from a day of classes at Columbia.

“Fine,” I say, praying I don’t sound as breathy as I feel.

Generally speaking, James rarely makes eye contact with me, choosing to focus somewhere around my hairline instead. At least that’s been the case since I first tried to flirt with him at the age of sixteen.

I can hardly blame the guy for his reaction. He’s never rude or dismissive, but he’s also, until this moment, been meticulously careful about never being alone with me.

Good for him. I’m not even being sarcastic there. What else was he supposed to do when a teenager flirted with him? James isn’t a creep.

But today he does look at me, if only briefly. His blue gaze darts to my cheekbone, then to my eyes in concern.

“Do you need some ice?”

I shrug sheepishly. “I fall asleep holding my phone and do it all the time. No harm, no foul.”

He frowns, and I think for a moment he’s about to deliver a lecture about not using my phone in bed.

Bronwyn howls through my phone, “Oh my God, is thatJames Mellingerin your bedroom?”

I snatch up the phone, my cheekbones burning, and hang up on her. I’ll beg her forgiveness later.

James backs up toward the door, rubs the back of his neck, and says, “Your father sent me up to tell you dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

I glance back down at my phone. Sure enough, dinner is about to be served at exactly the same time it always is. There’s no logical reason for this message that I can understand.

I give him a confused but cheery thumbs-up. “I’ll be there.”

He stops for a moment. “Did you… already know about dinner?”

“I mean, it’s our standard dinner hour, so yes.”

He pauses, frowning, before shifting gears. “I see. I’m sorry to interrupt your phone call.” He gives me a sharp nod. “I’ll see you at dinner, Clare.”

And then he’s gone.

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