Page 44 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

He leans back slightly, his smirk fading. “Depends on who’s looking.”

I narrow my eyes. “And what would I see?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His attention flits to the floor, then back to me, and something unreadable grows in his expression.

“I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?”

There’s an honesty in his tone that catches me off guard, making my throat tighten. The hum of the elevator seems louder now, the air between us too still, too charged.

He shifts slightly, and I feel the heat of him as his bent knee brushes against my thigh. It’s a small, fleeting contact, but it sends a jolt through me, making my breath hitch.

“I think…” His voice is softer now, more hesitant. “I think you’d see the parts I keep hidden. The ones I don’t show to anyone.”

I bite my lip again but quickly release it. “And why is that?”

More heavy silence.

“I think it’s because you’re not impressed by any of the bullshit. You’re real. You’re opinionated, smart, analytical, grounded. Your worldview allows you to see the stripped-down parts of me…even if I’d rather you not see them at all.”

The heavy words hang in the air. My chest tightens, and I look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“You speak as if you know me, but you don’t,” I say quietly, more to myself than to him.

“No,” he says, his voice firm. “But I want to.”

I clear my throat and, deciding to add some space between us, I roll over to all fours and reach for the emergency call button. I pause a centimeter from the button, contemplating if I really want to end this moment between Storm and me. Because right now? Seeing this new side to Storm Sandoval has me hungry to know more about him.

I want to see those hidden sides he swears will turn me off. But there’s a large part of me that knows that while he may not want anyone to see the real him, I think I’ll only like that part of him more.

Who is he beyond all of this?

You can’t afford to like him, Shae.

No. I really can’t.

My finger connects with the emergency call button, and this time it clicks through within a few seconds.

The operator confirms with me that we don’t need medical care and, after apologizing, tells us maintenance will be here in “just fifteen short minutes.”

The call disconnects, and I drop my head, blowing out a breath.

Fifteen minutes. I can do fifteen more minutes.

At least Storm seems calmer.

I inhale a shot of air when it dawns on me: I’m waving my ass right in Storm Sandoval’s face.

“Oh my god,” I shout with a choked sound. The odd noise seems too loud in the cabin. The most damning development, however, is that my muscles appear frozen in place, making it impossible for me to move from my position.

He is going to think I’m the thirstiest girl on the planet.

At that thought, I spin on my knees to face him, my ass safely pointing at the opposite wall. The look on his face is serious, and I realize this could be considered sexual harassment.

“I’m sorry,” I say, starting to feel dizzy as a level of embarrassment I haven’t experienced in a long time washes over me. “I’m not trying to seduce you or make you uncomfortable.”

He’s silent, and the longer he’s quiet, the worse I feel. I position myself to sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Ugh,” I say, dropping my head in my hands. “I’m sorry.”

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