Page 61 of Look, Don't Touch

The landscaper’s head snaps up over his shoulder to the suited frame of Arlo Judge. His hands are in his pockets. His chest is wide. His gaze is intent on me.

“Uh…uh,” the man stutters. “Sorry to be out front. Jake’s got the dirt truck blocking the rear drive.”

Mr. Judge shifts his gaze to the guy very slowly but says nothing. The young man shuts his mouth and moves his ass, along with the heavy load up the steps and out of sight. Neither of us watches him go, stuck in the magnetic pull of our gazes.

At least, I am. I can’t say why he looks at me so closely.

“Would you like to come in?”

“I’m surprised you’re home.” We speak in tandem.

I shove my frozen hands into my pockets to keep from accepting his invitation. Inside with him is dangerous. Hell, outside in the middle of Times Square is dangerous, with him.

“Can’t trust the workers not to attempt to seduce beautiful women who walk by my house.” He doesn’t shrug, smile, or do anything to minimize the impact of his words.

“So you stay to do it instead?”

“Could I seduce you?” He takes one step forward.

I take one back. Because he already has seduced me.

He stays put and gives me a nod, a promise to stay put.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” I offer. “I’m not stalking you. I was just out walking after my appointment with Astor.” I realize he doesn't know who that is. “My therapist…and friend.”

He tips his chin.

The man is more compelling than I remember. My memories of him are so disjointed. Pleasure in the dark. Intrigue in the light. As one he would be merciless on my tattered soul.

“I apologize for overreacting. I was afraid for my career.” It’s not a lie. It’s also not nearly the whole truth. Then again, he’s not been big on the whole truth either. He fucked me, knowing I was his therapist. Actually, technically he didn’t fuck me. The vibrator in his hand did.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“You should continue therapy. You were doing so well. You’d come a long way.” Panic seizes me. He’s going to think I’m inviting him back, and I can’t. I can’t have him that close. Hear him speak. And not feel like…I want him closer, deeper, harder. My swallow is thick. My body hums.

“I should have recommended you to someone. I can if you’ll let me.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. I don’t understand it.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

My brain is completely fucked. It’s mush. Those useless, ugly feelings return, making my stomach ache. I picture the woman he wants to touch, the whole reason he was in therapy to begin with. Of course, he’s seeing someone. He has a goal. He has a purpose. My little outburst won’t deter a man like Arlo Judge from his objective.

“A therapist,” he clarifies.

“That’s great. I’m really happy for you.” I pull one hand from my pocket, give an awkward wave, and set off for the park once more. I’ll grab a cab and get away.

“Don’t you want to know why I saw you that last night at Crave when I knew who you were?” he calls to my back.

I answer with a shake of my head and quickening footsteps.

The truth is, I’m terrified to know why.

I expect he used me as some kind of sexual surrogate. To gain practice with intimacy to use with his dream woman.

Without a clue, the jealousy gnaws at my insides. I can’t bear having those feelings reinforced. They don’t belong inside me. I swore on everything I ever had and ever loved that I would never, ever be jealous. I swore on everything that I’d never feel truly connected to someone who could hurt me. I will do anything to stay that way.

“At least let me drive you where you want to go.” Again, he’s snuck up on me without so much as a whisper of footsteps.

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