Page 8 of Perfectly Wrong

“Sam, you know that shouldn’t have happened. It was a mistake.”

“Oh.” He sounded genuinely hurt.

“I know. I’m sorry.” And I was. It had been a great night, but the circumstances weren’t ideal. He didn’t say anything else, and the silence between us was awkward. “Can we talk about this later? I’m in the middle of brainstorming with my team, and they’re waiting for me. Plus, they’re already suspicious about you showing up unexpectedly.”

“Can I come to your place later?”

“Okay,” I agreed without thinking. Damn it.

“See you at seven then!” he said cheerfully, walking out without looking back.

The doorbell rang at exactly 7 p.m. I blame the British and their descendants for this relentless punctuality. I was still brushing my hair and had planned to blow-dry it before he arrived. I rushed to the door and swung it open. There he was, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a black shirt that somehow made him look even hotter.

I stepped aside to let him in. He didn’t seem particularly happy, but he wasn’t exactly angry either. I, on the other hand, was losing my mind over the whole situation. Honestly, I didn’t want to break his heart, but some tough decisions had to be made.

“So,” he began, “what’s going on?”

“First things first: do you want a drink?” I was definitely going to need alcohol for this conversation. “I’ve got Spanish wine.”

“Oh, so now I’m old enough for wine, am I?” Sam chuckled at my reaction and followed me to the kitchen. I poured two glasses and sat next to him at the island. “You’re killing me, Lena.”

I was taking a sip when he called me that for the first time. The shock of hearing that nickname from him, though we’d been close before, almost made me spit the wine back into the glass. Being called Lena wasn’t usually a big deal, but coming from him, it sent shivers through my entire body. Those four letters, spoken in his smooth voice, were dangerous to my sanity.

“Right, you’re right. Let’s just get this over with.” Saying I was nervous would be an understatement. I was shaking from head to toe. “Sam, we work together. We’re in the middle of a project that’s going to take months, and we can’t get involved. It’s not professional, and if Jeremy finds out, he’ll pull my team from your release. Not to mention, you’re too young for me.” I knew that last reason sounded flimsy. Age was just a number, but deep down, it felt wrong to be involved with an eighteen-year-old when I was almost thirty.

“I hope you really believe that, because I know you had a good time,” he said before taking a generous sip of his wine. “It felt like we connected.”

“It’s true, but look around, Sam. We started off on the wrong foot, and there’s no clear way forward. I can’t see a happy ending for us.”

The wine was quickly making its way through my system, calming me down. Sam, however, seemed to be processing my words. “Maybe you’re right.” He gently tapped my nose with his finger, making me blink. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.”

“What?”

He got up from his stool and stood behind me, his hands expertly massaging my shoulders.

“We can keep this between us. Just you and me, in our own bubble, enjoying the time we have.” He knew exactly what he was doing. The massage was a calculated move, trying to get me to agree with his ridiculous proposal. “Once the tour’s over, you’ll move on to a new project, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by “separate ways,” but his strong hands seemed to cast some sort of spell over me. I leaned back against his chest and closed my eyes. His hands moved from my shoulders to the base of my neck, sending shivers through my entire body.

“Do you know the advantage of being older than you?” I asked.

“No idea.”

“I know all your tricks, Mr. Martin.” I stood up from the stool. “You’re not going to win me over with just one massage.”

He flashed that dazzling smile, all white teeth and the dimple in his chin. Something inside me melted.

“Maybe I should try harder to win you over then.” He stepped closer, his eyes locked on mine. “Yes or no, Lena?”

Many different responses ran through my mind:

1. Get the hell out of my house.

2. You’re insane, and I’m calling the cops to report a threat to my mental health.

3. Why don’t you find a girl your own age to pester?

But instead, I jumped on him, grabbing him by the neck and kissing him hard. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get rid of him?

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