Page 80 of Hard to Resist

He turns, those hazel eyes glittering with a dare for me to speak, to acknowledge him.

I clamp my mouth shut, swallowing my voice and bottling the scream deep within my lungs.

I force myself to look forward and stare at the advertisements running along the top of the car. It feels like these ads change once a month. Right now, it’s a promotion for a new dating app.I read the words over and over, memorizing them in an attempt to not think about Cullen.

His cologne trickles into the air, twisting my core. The train turns a smidge too sharply; the force causes my butt to slide on the plastic and close the few inches that separated our bodies. My thigh presses against his thigh. My bicep against his bicep.

I squeeze my tote bag more tightly, holding onto it for dear life. The tips of my fingers play with the loose stitching around the handle, which I should probably get fixed before it snaps. I numb myself with the repetitive movements, rubbing the threads between my thumb and forefinger. I’ve been meaning to get a new bag, but every time I look at the price tag, I shudder.

The stops keep trickling by, one after another.

My awareness of Cullen doesn’t dull even the slightest, but I stay true to my decision and ignore him to the best of my ability.

We arrive at the ninth stop, one away from my destination, when he stands up. The movement catches me off guard, and I automatically shift my gaze to peer up at him.

Cullen drops the paper bag he’d been carrying onto his empty seat and gives me a sad smile before fading into the sea of people exiting the train car.

I stare at his disappearing form until the doors close, cutting me off from him and creating this sense of hollowness right between my breasts.

What was the point of that? Why?Why?

I itch to run my hands through my hair and grip my head. The frustration crawls all over my body at the unanswered questions.

I glance at the paper bag he left behind. I can’t just leave it there. It would look suspicious as hell if a random brown bag were just chilling on the seats for the rest of the train’s journey.

I pick it up, intending to throw it into the trash as soon as I get to my stop, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

Inside is some sort of pastry in a white bag. It smells delicious, a rich sweetness emanating from it. I pluck it out, noting that it’s somehow still warm. My fingers catch on something on the back of the white bag, and I turn it around to find a little Post-it note stuck to the back.

May your Monday be as sweet as this Danish

C x

It’s cheesy as hell, totally eye-roll worthy, but as the train slows at the tenth stop and I get up to leave, I catch myself smiling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

VERITY

Ihave a totally new issue.

What I’d thought was a one-off occurrence of Cullen loitering around my apartment and accompanying me to work before off-loading a fresh pastry with a corny pickup line has turned out to be one of his new routines.

It’s now been eleven days of wake-up texts, eleven nights of bouquets, and four mornings of joint commutes.

Four. Mornings. In. A. Row.

I’m starting to wonder how much spare time he has with how much effort he is putting in. Surely, he must have better things to do. He has a job.

Each morning, I leave my apartment, and Cullen is lounging against the light post. Always in one of his suits and always causing my heart to do a flip. He silently falls into step beside me and walks with me all the way to the station before getting on the subway and riding nine stops.

The first day, he left me the blackberry Danish.

The second day, he handed me a coffee from that place where we had our second date.

The third day, it was a donut from his sister’s shop.

Today, it appears to be a juice.

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