Page 137 of By A Thread
By Monday morning, mostly recovered from the scotch poisoning, I’d convinced myself that I could do this. I could be her boss, her friend. I could keep my fucking hands to my fucking self.
I’d find that self-control I’d once been so proud of and actually utilize it. And in another hundred years or so, I’d even be able to survive the idea of her meeting someone else. Dating. Fucking. Falling in love.
My still mildly unsettled gut rolled at the idea when I stepped onto the elevator and hurtled toward the forty-third floor.
Yeah. That day was not today.
I decided to focus instead on figuring out the strange scent that lingered in my car. Tacos and… what the hell was that? Concrete? Drywall?
“Morning,” Ally’s greeting was gratingly cheerful. She was wearing a—thank the fucking gods of winter—turtleneck. It hugged all of the right places, but at least I couldn’tseea damn thing. Her hair was partially pulled back into a tiny knot on top of her head. She wore brushed gold hoop earrings with crystals that kept catching my eye.
She’d painted her lips a classic, fuck-me red, and I wanted to kiss her until the lipstick smeared all over both of us.
When she cocked her head, I wondered how long I’d been standing there assessing how much I liked the way she looked.
“Morning,” I said, belatedly handing over the coffee and breakfast wrap I’d brought her.
Her eyes lit up in that way that always made my cold, dead insides spark to life.
“Thanks! You don’t have to do that, you know.” She beamed up at me, the picture of platonic affection. She was entirely too enthusiastic about this “friend” thing.
I grunted a response. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to bring the woman to orgasm, but I sure as hell could bring her food until I was convinced she was out of whatever stupid financial situation she’d gotten herself into.
She had a new bandage on her left ring finger but looked well-rested.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” she asked.
In no hurry to leave her, I put my tea on her desk and shrugged out of my coat. I noticed that her eyes lingered on it and had a vague recollection of suggesting “swapsies.”
Goddammit, I was a fucking idiot.
“Did you know scotch hangovers can last three days?” I asked conversationally.
She shuddered, closing those dark-lashed eyes. “Try tequila sometime. Last time Faith and I had a ‘men suck, let’s explore lesbianism’ drink fest, it involved tequila. I was sick for five days straight.”
I blinked and, of course, pictured it.Whatever. Cut me some slack. I’m a man whose last two-party action had been a lapdance at…
Abort! Abort! Abort! Do not get a fucking hard-on on day one of Let’s Be Friends.
I gritted my teeth in what I hoped looked like a smile and pretended I wasn’t picturing Ally making out with another woman.And then I knew I had it bad when some girl-on-girl fantasy only made me feel jealous.Yes, Ms. Morales, here’s a breakfast wrap with a side of my balls. You can keep them forever.
Ally winced. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous about this friend thing and trying to play it cool.”
“By bringing up lesbianism?” I asked in exasperation. “Maybe we should take this a little slower and not speak.”
She buried her face in her hands, and I admired her ringless fingers like the fucking sex-starved moron I was.
“Let’s start over,” she suggested, dropping her hands. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine,” I lied. “How was yours?”
“Fine,” she parroted back.
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Okay then.” I was still standing there nodding at her and screaming at myself to walk the fuck away when a delivery guy hustled up, cracking his gum and giving Ally a once-over that was a little too thorough for my liking.
