Page 40 of Rare Blend
Her shoulders drop, her head cocks, and she looks up at me through furrowed brows. “Why should I?”
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression remains. “Is that all?”
I’m not sure what else to say. Clearly, my simple apology hardly made a dent in the damage I caused. “I’m really, really sorry.”
Her lips pull into a thin, fake smile. “Good to know.” She starts to close the door again, but again, I stop it.
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
My heart races as panic grips me tightly. I’m struggling to catch my breath, and my chest tightens with each inhalation. My thoughts scatter. I search for anything I can say or do to make this right. And I know what I have to do.
“I’ll do it,” I nearly shout.
She freezes, her forehead scrunching. “Do what?”
“I’ll do the interview.”
Her arms cross, and she leans against the door frame, eyeing me suspiciously. I get it. She has no reason to trust me or my word.
“I’ll do the interview,” I repeat. “Anything you want. A full exposé. Pictures. The works.”
“Okay.”
“Are we good?”
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes her lips. It’s a harsh, biting sound, tinged with irritation. “No, we’re not good. It’s going to take a lot more than a half-assed apology and an interview to get me to forgive you.”
I nod, my shoulders slumping. “I understand.” I start to leave, but then pause. “For the interview, call tomorrow and my admin will make the arrangements. And I really am sorry. The guy you met and that you’ve been dealing with, that’s not me. I’m under a lot of pressure, and it’s flipping me upside down. My anxiety has been getting the best of me. I overreacted when you found the bottle, I just hate people knowing that I need to take meds—it makes me feel weak, which I know is counterintuitive. I’m not the asshole you think I am, and I’m going to prove it.”
Her eyes hold mine, giving away nothing. What I wouldn’t give to know the thoughts behind those impenetrable pools of dark honey.
I know she needs more than words from me to atone for all the ways I’ve treated her. It’s mortifying, the depths to which I’vesunk in the short time we’ve known each other. I’m ashamed of myself.
As I walk away, she stays unmoving, but halfway down the porch steps, her voice brings me to a stop.
“Ethan,” she calls, and I look back at her over my shoulder. “Beg.”
Beg? “Excuse me?”
The edges of her lips lift and delight dances in her eyes. “You heard me. Beg.”
The weight that’s been sitting on my chest since I arrived to see fresh tears in her eyes eases slightly. I’ll take her mischievous smile over crying any day. It’s downright sexy. The last thing I should be doing right now is checking her out. I force my eyes to remain on her face and not travel down to her tan, bare legs in barely there shorts. From my position on the bottom step, they’re closer to my eye level and damn-near unavoidable. Climbing up the steps, I rejoin her on the porch.
“If you want me tostartto forgive you, I’m going to need some begging, a little groveling.” Her tone has pivoted. There’s a playfulness that wasn’t there before.
If begging is what she wants, then she’s going to get it. “I can do that.”
The pink tip of her tongue darts out, wetting her lips and leaving behind a shiny sheen. My thoughts drop down to the gutter, wondering what else that tongue can lick. I shake my head, forcing away the image. I go from making her cry to checking her out; something is seriously wrong with me.
Her eyes are full of challenge. “Prove it.”
“How?” Nerves swirl in my stomach. I’m positive she’ll have me do something that will no doubt embarrass the shit out of me.
Her smile is devilishly mesmerizing. I fear I’ll be doing anything she asks of me.
“On your knees.”
