Page 18 of Waiting for Acceptance
“I’ll take my own car.” I take a step towards her again, taking to memory the way her breath catches when I invade her space. I bring my lips close to her ear and watch her chest rise and fall more heavily.
“No, you won’t. Nine minutes, Sweetheart. Iwillleave you here if you’re not ready.” Then I reach around her, causing her to gasp when I brush against her waist, and turn the doorknob to leave.
“Unless you want this visit to turn into one that will be consideredhighlyunprofessional, I suggest you let me out now.” Her cheeks heat and she takes a step to the right, allowing me enough space to leave her office. I head back to the conferenceroom to grab my things, fighting to lose the hard-on I now have, that I’m hoping she didn’t notice.
Hell, what do I care if she did? Maybe she’d do something about it and I could finally move on—get her out of my system. Is it possible that night wasn’t everything I’ve made it out to be? I mean, if she doesn’t evenrememberit, maybe I have a skewed memory of what happened between us.
It may be time to remind my little troublemaker of who I am.
Eight minutes later she’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest by the passenger door of my car. Obedient little thing. I walk over to her side and her face morphs into extreme confusion.
“What’s the matter, Sweetheart, never had someone open the door for you?” I pull the handle and she stares blankly inside the car for a moment then looks up at me.
“No, I haven’t.” The sadness that flashes in her eyes is masked quickly by the ever-present irritation she feels when she’s around me, but I still see it, and fuck if it doesn’t make me angry. I close the door behind her and walk around to my side.
I let her take the lead during the showings, taking notes as she does her thing. I can tell she doesn’t want me here, but the moments she glances over at me with a look of discomfort vanish as soon as she turns back to her client. She’s a professional through and through. She doesn’t push people to choose a certain home, she doesn’t hype up the higher priced listing more than the lower priced ones just to try and make a bigger commission, she gives them all the information they need then backs off but is around to answer questions without hovering and gives what I assume to be her honest opinion when they ask for her thoughts. I’ve never seen someone sell like she does. I can’t seem to look away when she talks. I find myself pulling out my phone to check emails just to keep myself from gettingcaught. The last thing I need is for her to notice me staring at her and make some smart-ass remark about it. When we get back in the car I turn her seat warmer on before relaxing my head onto the headrest and letting out a sigh.
“Before you begin your critique can I at least get some food in my system first?” My brows pull together at her remark.
“Excuse me?” There she goes, rolling those damn eyes again.
“You literally did not stop watching me during every showing we had today, then during this last one you were suddenly typing away on your phone.”
“So?”
“So,I’m sure whatever I did to lose your attention or disappoint you or whatever, is going to come up. I’d just rather not deal with the criticism on an empty stomach.”
“Food first. Criticism after. Got it.” She glares at me and shakes her head, turning to face out the window before mumbling something I can’t quite hear.
CHAPTER 10
LAUREN
I don’t know why I’m still entertaining this stupid little assignment. I should have called Jack or Barbara the day Marcus told me I’d be doing training with Fitz. This isn’t even training anymore it’s…I don’t even know what the fuck this is. Harassment, maybe? It’s like anything and everything I need to do for work has to be run by Fitz or he has to be surgically attached to my hip while I do it. It makes no sense, and quite frankly, I’m tired of entertaining it.
We pull up to one of the nicest Italian restaurants in town and I have to swallow past the argument in my throat for him to take me back to the office so I can grab something about forty dollars cheaper. The last thing I’m going to do is tell him this place will completely wipe me of my spending budget for the week. I turn around to grab my bag from the back seat and by the time I face forward again he’s at my door.
Why does he keep doing this?
He stands between the open passenger door and the back door, blocking my view of the street. My eyes bounce between his in confusion. “Am I not supposed to get out too?”
His eyes fall away from mine and down my body. “You’re in a dress.” It takes me a moment to process, but when it hits me what he’s doing, my stomach does a weird flip.
“Oh, thanks.” I slide out of the vehicle and adjust my dress, wrapping my coat tighter around me and he holds his arm out for me.
“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, keeping my arms crossed over my chest.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you…you’re just…” I try to think of ways to explain why I’m confused without sounding like I’ve never been around a guy withmannersbefore and quickly change my tone when I realize that there isn’t one. “Never mind.”
I take his arm and we walk into the building together, letting go as soon as we are inside. Maybe this is normal where he’s from? To open doors and usher your co-worker into lunch like a true gentleman, even if you act like an asshole every other minute of the day. I’m used to going to lunch with Luther, and sure we link arms when walking down the sidewalk, but that’s different for multiple reasons. One being that we’refriends, the other being that I’ve never gotten mixed signals from him that he hates me one moment and then wonder if he’s checking me out the next. It’s like a mental whiplash being around Fitz and it’s exhausting.
This place is very…quiet. I fear using the word romantic or even intimate because that would make me start imagining that this is a date—with the devil, no less—and I wouldn’t touch that idea with a ten-foot pole. I’m used to going somewhere loud during lunch, either a deli or a drive-thru while listening to music or a podcast, or even having FaceTime lunch dates with some of the girls, but this is not like any of that. The overhead lighting is dim, each table having a small tealight helpingilluminate the space, the tables are small on the open floor and the booths along the walls aren’t much bigger.
“Right this way,” the hostess says, leading us to our table. I continue looking around at the squared wooden columns with vintage artwork and decor hanging on them. The gorgeous chandelier hanging in the center of the room, not giving much more than a nightlight's worth of brightness, is absolutely magnificent.
“Ever been here before?” Fitz asks as we slide into either side of the booth.
