Page 65 of Lessons in Forgiving
“I’m sorry,” he said, and it was almost a rasp. “I’m going to have to compliment you again.”
I knew I’d told him to stop earlier in the evening. But the high of a great night hadn’t worn off yet, and it was making me reckless.
Eyes opening, I wasn’t surprised to see him in front of me. His throat worked, his gaze fell down my frame again. He seemed more unapologetic when it lingered on my cleavage.
I was so distracted, I didn’t even know whether we’d already pressed the button for our floor. I couldn’t tell whether we were moving or if the elevator still stood in the lobby, only a closed door separating us from the staff.
“When I got this for you last year,” Henry began, and his finger gently trailed along the neckline, careful not to touch skin. “I wanted to see you on New Year’s so badly, I thought if I took the burden of an outfit decision off you, you might come.”
My lips tipped up teasingly, and I didn’t know what compelled me to grab his tie. “You didn’t even say hi to me that evening,” I reminded him, playing with the fabric, loosening it around his neck. He did not object. “You’re telling me you had an entire outfit bought but couldn’t say hello?”
Henry nodded. A man usually the epitome of control and confidence blushed, then let me pull him closer by his tie. One slow step after the other. “Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you make me nervous, Paula.”
“Do I?”
“Sometimes. When you look at me a little longer. When you accidentally touch me. More so when you deliberately touch me.” His gaze trailed to his tie, my hand wrapped around it. “OnNew Year’s Eve, I was nervous. And you looked so happy, I didn’t want to ruin that.”
Henry looked at me, with his perfectly parted hair, and those green eyes I’d recognize among a thousand other pairs, and I almost gave in. Almost forgot that he wasn’t my boyfriend, and that I shouldn’t pull him even closer.
“Maybe it would’ve made me happier,” I whispered. My eyes flicked to his lips, then back. “Maybe I was secretly waiting all night.”
“Were you?” Without taking his eyes off me, he finally pressed the button for the sixteenth floor.
I nodded faintly, and Henry slipped one of the loose curls back behind my ear. His hand lingered on my skin like it had last night. And despite the fact that we had been in the same bed, lights off, limbs almost touching then, this felt more intimate. The way his throat bobbed, the way his breath stuttered against my nose.
I could write an entire article on the way his finger curled around my chin, tilted it toward his own. Analyzing the barely noticeable tremble of his hand, his touch so delicate you’d think he was scared of breaking me.
But I wasn’t, I remembered. Writing an article about how badly I wanted Henry Parker Pressley to kiss me. It was the exact opposite of my actual assignment.
Write a profile about him. Play the role of ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care and actually kind of despised him.
Only that somewhere along the way I’d forgotten. Started caring and stopped despising. “We shouldn’t—” The words were barely a breath against his lips, no conviction behind them.
“I know.” Henry nodded, pressed his forehead against mine. His hand slipped behind my neck, holding me like he was afraid I might run.
He didn’t know I could barely move.
“I’m trying to be reasonable.” He went on, took a deep breath. “I thought I could handle it, but clearly—” He snickered, probably at the fact that this wasn’t reasonable at all. The way we stood so close when he was supposed to mean nothing to me, and I nothing to him.
Friends. Interview partners. Journalist and subject.
“We can try, though,” I suggested halfheartedly, hands still clinging to his tie between us. The urge to place them elsewhere was so strong, I had to physically restrain myself from it. Perhaps that’s why my nails were digging into the fabric now. “To be reasonable, I mean. We can try, right?”
We had to.
For the sake of this profile. For the sake of my ability to write about him without thinking about the way he kissed or touched me. It would be hard enough now, when it had been almost a year since.
“We can try,” Henry agreed right as the elevator doors opened with a sharpding.
CHAPTER 26
THEN, April: one year ago
Eddie had given me three months for this article. I’d never gotten as much time on anything else before and it was solely due to the fact that HBU had requested the topic themselves, and they’d requested that I write it.
Rare, Eddie had said.The top doesn’t request things often.
When they did, apparently it was this:All Brains, No Polish: The Burden of Ivy Leagues.
