Page 52 of David's Proposal

I flick my eyes to him and notice a shred of concern in his gaze.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I am.”

He says nothing, but my voice has gone up a little, suggesting otherwise.

I am okay.

It’s that I’m still washed with good hormones.

There are better ways to end a night of amazing sex, like lying in bed, cuddling, or sleeping together.

Not that this is my idea of spending my night with him.

I’m just feeling that way.

“You don’t need to take me home. I’ll get a cab. Or I’ll call your driver,” I say flatly.

I’m not angry, just cold.

Practical.

Walking side by side across the lobby before hopping in a car with him is less inconspicuous than I’d like.

Plus, what are we supposed to talk about?

“I need some time for myself,” I say seriously, my other persona gone. Whisked away by the lights and voices in the lobby.

No more sexy, sweet, naughty Elizabeth.

I’m checking out like I’m clocking out when leaving work.

His expression changes, and I don’t have time to read into it when his phone rings. Just on time.

It’s probably someone we both know.

If I were to guess, his expression just reflected some stern curiosity and concern about my sudden change of mood.

But it’s not like I’m following a script here.

It’s just how I feel.

I’d rather be alone.

He dips his gaze to his phone.

“It’s James,” he says without further instructions, and he takes the call.

On cue, I walk ahead of him, his steps trailing mine.

We’re not walking together––we have a couple of steps between us––but we’re still together in some weird kind of way.

The lights roll over me, almost prompting me to lift my hand and shield my eyes.

I suppress my impulse to do that at the last moment, squinting my eyes instead and taking in the few people in the waiting area.

A jazz pianist plays a mellow tune in the back and a woman who looks eerily familiar talks to the doorman.

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