Page 32 of So Wrong It's Right

All of those are reasons enough to feel like a giant dick. But the one that won’t leave me alone is that I can’t regret it. I want to do it again. I need to. I need it. I need her.

Shit.

I donotneed her. I don’t even know where that came from.

It’s like she is on some personal quest to strip me of control, and she did it. She egged me on. She challenged me. And I played into her plans exactly the way she wanted me to. But I never meant to bruise her. She probably thinks I’m a big oaf. That countertop had to be as unforgiving as my body behind her. I wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t even attentive. I just...I just took.

I’m a horrible person.

I check my watch. She’ll be here soon, and I need to find my center. I don’t enjoy the swinging pendulum of emotion she keeps time with. I will never be the kind of man who sweeps a woman like Stella off her feet and into the chaos of a grand love affair. Yesterday was an anomaly and one we won’t be repeating.

If I could just stop seeing the curve of her heart-shaped ass every time I close my eyes. Stop hearing the sound of her cries of pleasure. The sound of her ass turning pink. Stop feeling the silky skin of her back. And god, being inside her. The silky heat of her... Everything about her is beyond bliss—but I’m not prone to extremes. I’d rather stay to the center of contentment than the highs and lows of bliss and wretched disappointment. It’s over. It has to be, or I won’t survive it.

We’ll go back to pretending to be a couple and avoid the confusion of adding sex to the mix.

She’s here. I can hear her in the break room. I swallow hard. Okay. The thing to do here is make sure she knows I respect her but keep things professional. Friendly. Uncomplicated.

I need to not hide in this office. I have to remind my heart to slow down as I pause outside the break room door.

Her dress is a peacock feather pattern today. The violets and blues mesmerize me as I watch her move around the kitchen area. I can’t look at the counter. I’ll probably throw her across it.

What has she done to me? I try for her shoes but end up following her legs all the way up to her sweet, round breasts.

When I work my gaze back up to her face, she’s smiling at me. “Good morning, doc.”

She’s not doing anything wrong. But I’ve somehow bypassed upset or even angry and worked myself up to being furious. Furious with her for being so pretty and so off limits. Furious that I want her so much. Furious that I had one taste that will never, ever, be enough. Furious that she exists in this world because now I know my Kryptonite. And she just stands there. Eyes bright. Her head tilted slightly, exposing a sweet spot meant for my kisses.

I clear my throat. Aching to touch her but staying put. Feet planted. And then her eyes dim. And her smile fades. And she swallows what was probably her pride, and she sweeps her gaze down.

And now I’m furious that she let me dim her light.

I squeeze the box of paperclips in my hand. “I apologize. Good morning.”

The silence between us is a deafening roar. It’s pushing on my skull like a relentless migraine. She’s losing faith in me by degrees. I am watching her as it happens. I’m the man who ignited like a forest fire last night. Savaged her body. And today, she feels my coldness. If she didn’t think I was a mistake last night, she does now.

For an instant, I wish I wasthatguy—the man she might have thought I could be. The one who’d have stayed the night. Kissed every inch of her, lingering and leisurely kisses. The one who would make her breakfast in that crazy kitchen and not complain that all her spatulas are colorful. The one who would kiss her now, right before she unlocks the front door. So that she’s horny and flustered when the first patient arrives. The one who would understand what she needs and not be blocked from giving it to her.

But I’m not that guy. I want a different kind of life than Stella does. I don’t want to feel what she’s trying to make me feel.

I hold out the box. “Here.”

Her brows knit together, and she moves forward with a hesitant step. “What is it?” She shakes it. Opens it. “Paperclips?” She meets my eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“They are plain paperclips. The stars come down today.” I clear my throat. “We made a bargain.”

I prepare for a Stella-like explosion. Instead, she stares at the box in her hand calmly, and I am the one snapping like a kite in a gale force wind. I want to yank the box back. Stuff the words back inside. I remember my parents’ epic battles and the apologies that always came after. I never understood how they just pretended the words weren’t said. The lines weren’t crossed. The up and the down of their arguments made me cringe—but they just apologized and carried on until the next.

Why do I feel like the same boy now? No voices have been raised. No insults hurled. No extreme emotion shown. She’s calm, and I’m cringing in the corner.

“Stella—”

It feels like the color is leaching from her dress. Like the room is fading to grayscale around me. It’s my fault. I dimmed the light. Removed the color.

“Stella—”

“Of course. Thank you for the thoughtful gesture. I’ll take down the stars for you today.”

I didn’t know. How could I have known that the flat look in her eyes when she looked at me would be so much worse than a fight? She’s looking right through me, and she’s building a wall. I see the cement blocks as if they are labeled: Distrust. Disappointment. Denial. She’s going to keep me out once and for all. Brick by brick.

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