Page 32 of My Enemy, My Obsession

My breath catches with the intimate offer, and my eyes meet his, and there is no question he’s aware of the message he’s sending, and it’s the one he’s already spoken out loud. We’re more than business, but I don’t know where to go from here. Do I dive into where this takes us, or hold a firm line to protect my Zoey brand?

I don’t hold the line. I never had the chance.

I grab a fry and dip it in the sauce and taste it, with him watching me with anticipation and...hunger. The man is watching me like he wants to gobble me up and eat me right here in public. And I want him, too. I’ve been seduced by way of a French fry, and that tells me I’m one wrong move from naked in his hotel room.

Which would be, oh, so right and wrong at the same time.

His lips curve and his eyes dance with amusement, and I suddenly realize I’m staring at him, and I’ve not been even a little discreet. “Well?” he asks. “Was it good?”

The French fry, or being naked with him? I’m not sure what we’re talking about right now, but I decide to answer both questions. “Very much,” I murmur. “Yes.” It’s out before I stop it, and it feels as if I just answered the silent question, thickening the air between us.

Will we end up naked again?

His handsome face lights with approval, and my awkward silence follows.

It seems as if I should offer to let him taste my mac, but it’s somehow different than just grabbing a fry, and it feels like I’ll be offering him something much more. And as much as I might want so much more with this man, I do not think it’s a smart decision.

I decide right then I will not offer him the shared intimacy of a bite of my food.

Plus, he doesn’t seem like a mac ‘n’ cheese kind of guy. Does he? I mean, he ordered aburger and fries.

“You want more?” he asks, snapping my gaze to his, and oh yes, there is heat in his gaze, so much heat, that he’s officially the sun and I’m the chocolate, melting right here in the hotel bar.

Do I want more?

I did. I do.

I do.

Unbidden, I flashback to our dinner and conversation in Hawaii, and somehow my vodka-zapped mind is present enough to remember quite clearly my impression of everyone wanting something from him. I want something from him, too, and I hate that I do. I hate this is how we came back together, and I regret leaving without finding out what might have been, if anything at all.

I want him, but I also want the Zoey brand to breathe with a life of its own.

There is no denying this truth.

And this truth will create an impression with him, no matter how he might say otherwise that I’m just like everyone else, after what he can give me, outside of a really good orgasm. I’ll never get past that impression by way of being naked and in bed with him. No matter how much my desire-laden body thrums in his presence, no matter how much appeal one more night with him holds. And what if this is a test, one he doesn’t even realize he’s creating—a way to judge me and my character?

This is a test that I don’t even know if he’s offering me intentionally. It’s just bred into him to gauge the people around him and in his life. And I didn’t get a grand start. The thing is, too, that I like him. I really, really like him. I think he needs me to be something others are not.

I will not fail this test and make him feel like I’ll do anything to get what I want, including him. Decision made, I play our word game, and reply with, “Sometimes, even when you want something, you have to say no.”

His eyes flicker with surprise, and several heavy beats pass before he asks, “Final decision?”

No, I think.No, it is not my final decision. “It’s a girl’s prerogative to change her mind, right?”

His lips quirk at the edge, and he says, “And mine to help you.” And the way he says those words is velvet on my senses, the way his tongue was on my body.

Ask me again, I think, and I’ll say yes, no matter how foolish the decision.

I both wish he would push me right now and pray that he will not.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ethan watches me fora moment and then drags his plate closer to himself again, the word salad of sex and French fries between us at least temporarily banked. I’m as disappointed as I am relieved, but hide my reaction by digging into my meal. It’s delicious, and even a couple of bites starts waking my brain, maybe a little too well. “Just how bad is my father’s company?” I ask, officially overthinking, something I’m quite good at, which is how I end up worried that if I travel to Paris, my father’s company won’t be around when I get back. As if he really needs me when my father is quite capable on his own.

His eyes sharpen, but his answer is without delay. “When someone shows me their books, it’s in the utmost confidence, and I sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

I bristle with this reply. “So, you can’t tell me about my own father’s company?”

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