Page 24 of These White Lies
But along with my outrage and shock is the familiar despair behind my breastbone. The twisty, sick feeling of not having been enough.
I must have made a sound because the couple freezes.
“Did you hear that?”
“No.” There is fear in Natalya’s voice.
“I think?—”
“I’ll lock the door from this side. Jonathan locked it earlier to keep people out, but I used my key. I’ll lock it back.”
She takes a step in my direction.
There is no way she won’t see me, and even though my head is telling me I’m not the one doing something wrong, I don’t want to be found.
Holding my breath, I turn the handle at my back, thankful beyond reason when it turns silently, allowing me to squeeze through the opening.
I close the door and lean my forehead against the wood panels as I hear Natalya’s heels click past as she returns to Keith. I count to one hundred before I risk cracking the door open to peer out. I glimpse the couple pressed against a wall, only a few feet away, completely caught up with each other.
Ew.
I hate him with every atom of my being.
Closing the door again, I turn the lock and slump against it with my eyes closed, mind racing.
What am I supposed to do now? Keep checking every few minutes until they’re done and I can escape?
I’d rather pluck my eyeballs out than seethatagain.
I’m stuck for at least afewminutes, I think with a snarky smile. But it quickly disappears. Maybe it was just with me he was bored. I bury the feelings along with all the others that have popped up over the last year, hardening my heart.
“Funny,” a low, amused voice says. “I thought I was the only one hiding from the party.”
My entire body jerks, my eyes flying open. A single lamp on a low side table in front of a wall of bookshelves provides enough light for me to instantly locate the man seated behind a massive wood desk, crystal tumbler in hand.
“Who are you spying on?” His deep voice teases, making my stomach swoop a little. “Or are you just making sure the coast is clear and we’re alone?”
Okay, it might be the massive shoulders evident under his tailored tuxedo or that I can see his thigh muscles move underneath the fabric when he stands, but my heart is suddenly pounding in my chest.
He looks like he stepped out of a photo spread for debauchery.
He’s hot. Seriously hot.
His body anyway—the majority of his face is obscured by a black mask.
I feel my face flush, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m embarrassed or because…
Never in my life have I had such an instant, visceral reaction to a man.
Probably because no one has touched you in forever, and because the evening is starting to feel like the movie you joked about, the voice in my head taunts.
He rounds the desk, his movements slow and unbothered, a smirk curving his lips.
“Did they send you to me?”
“What?”
“Are you my reward?”
