Page 63 of Reverse

I march toward the bathroom as I berate myself.

WhatthefuckareyoudoingNatalieButler?

“Jesus help me,” I mutter behind the closed door of the bathroom, attempting to catch my breath. I realize I’m clutching my pint-sized travel purse to my chest like a human shield.

As if it would help.

My thoughts race for a solution to help me sidestep my increasing attraction for Easton Crowne as the answer boomerangs the second the question is released, hurtling back and bitch slapping me with truth.

Nothing.

Easton Crowne is a human masterpiece. He’s cruelly alluring looks-wise, and he’s got intelligence and depth to boot. He’s also insightful and warm, despite his frank way of speaking and his broody nature. Even after all he’s revealed, there still remains an air of mystery that’s only drawing this moth further into the flame. A flame I didn’t fully see until now, which is growing hotter by the second.

In short, Easton Crowne is the biggest threat to my well-being ever created.

“In my mind, I’ve already sunk inside you a thousand times.”

He wants to act on it, I want him to act on it, and there’s no way in hell that’s a possibility.

No way.

The upside to my current battle? In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll already be in the air, halfway to Austin, and he’ll no longer be a danger to me. Meeting him today—especially after my confession and our near-catastrophic flirtation last night—was a mistake. We should have parted there.

Instead, I dressed up for him, and now I’m obsessing in a fucking bathroom.

Who are you?

I blame the situation. I do not bow or blush for men, nor do I cower from attraction and hide from it in bathrooms. The man’s out of his damned mind comparing me tosnow. I’ve roped and ridden my fair share. Not that the draw is comparable.

Simply put, it’s not.

Attraction aside, I can’t help the fact that I want to soak in every single second with him until I leave, even if we can’t act on it. He’s been one hell of a friend to me, and he’s being respectful of the line I’ve drawn, which makes me feel safe with him—to an extent. Images of him at the piano snake their way into my psyche as I repeatedly smack my head against the back of the door while Easton’s words filter through again.

“I’m also thinking you’ve never been properly kissed, fucked, or loved and that you caught a glimpse of something you want for yourself.”

Exhaling harshly, I make my way toward the vanity sink and give my reflection a pep talk. “Less than a day, woman. Get your shit in check. Right. Now. Butlers don’t back down. Seriously, he’s just a man. You can scratch the itch back in Austin.” I roll my eyes at my reflection, but even as I think it, and though Easton’s respecting the boundaries, his withdrawal from me when we got to the parlor has me sorting through the reason for it.

I haven’t said or done anything out of sorts. Nothing near as bad as what I confessed last night. Has his resentment grown? Is he masking some underlying contempt for me? Does he plan on toying with me? He’s more than capable, especially knowing I’m attracted to him.

If he’s planning on acting out, maybe getting even somehow, he’ll probably enjoy every second of watching me squirm. He’s probably enjoying the panic he no doubt saw back there. Determined to keep some of my self-respect, I flush the toilet to complete my ruse, wash my hands, and toss my shoulders back. It’s when I grip the bathroom handle of the door that realization dawns about the company we’re currently keeping.

My friends call me G.

Gi.

As in Benji First.

As inBen—the son of the lead singer of the Dead Sergeants—andLexi—Stella’s lifelong best friend and confidante’s—lovechild.

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!

Racing from the bathroom back into the parlor to beg Easton not to disclose a single detail about me or my reasons for being here, I’m stopped short by the sight of Easton laying on the table, the purple outline of the sketch running from his hip bone to the top of his ribs. Buzzing gun in hand, Benji lifts his head when he spots me. “So, Easton tells me you’re from Texas, and your dad used to date my tía Stella.”

Fuck.

EIGHTEEN

“Lost in You”

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