by Staci Hart
The war between wanting to slap his beautiful mouth and wanting to kiss it was at a stalemate, locked in a standoff in my heart.
I reminded myself I only had to survive long enough to get to Bianca’s office to check in and scurry to the library where I could hide from Court all day. I had no plans to check in with him for the day, and I told myself again that if he could leave me like he had, he could also resort to emailing what he needed from me.
The truth, which I immediately buried in my heart, was that I couldn’t bear facing him. I could pass him in the halls. I could take his instruction. But I couldn’t sit across from him and share his mind like nothing had changed.
And that unwanted thought was the one that followed me as I left the house to face the firing squad. Every step I took toward the subway was measured and self-assured, my earphones blasting Santigold as I hyped myself up. But I was too distracted to successfully read on the train, instead spending forty-five minutes scrolling through my phone, fidgeting with my cuffs and skirt hem, and obsessing over what would happen if I saw him.
But when I made it into the museum, he was nowhere—not in the halls, not in his office when I passed it, and not in Bianca’s when I stepped in.
Most of me was relieved. A sliver of me was disappointed. And yet another smaller, louder part of me took every step braced for a land mine, turned every corner expecting him to pop out of a foxhole and open fire on my heart.
I forced myself to raise my chin in an act of braveness I didn’t feel as I met Bianca’s eyes. “Good morning, Dr. Nixon,” I said, the speech prepared and rehearsed, my voice surprisingly strong and smooth though still quiet. “I just wanted to let you know I’m here. I’ll head to the library and out of your way. Email me if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Her delicate jaw was set, her eyes flinty. “Focus your efforts today on the Botticelli pieces and turn in all cited work by the end of the day. Tomorrow, you’ll be shadowing me, so wear comfortable shoes.” She glanced at my feet with a critical look on her face.
A nervous tingle crept up my neck and to my cheeks, followed by a blooming warmth as my cheeks flushed. “All right. Thank you,” I said, ducking out of the room, hurrying for the elevator, relieved when I didn’t see Court anywhere, thankful I was safe.
Until the doors opened.
There he stood, somehow taller, somehow more handsome and infinitely more dangerous than he’d ever been. Nothing about his appearance was casual—he was hardened steel, his eyes dark and heavy, his cheekbones sharp and angular. He scanned my hair, my face, settling on my lips, the muscle at his jaw jumping.
And there was no denying his presence. I was a slave to whatever savage, animal pheromones were emitted when he was in the room. Or the elevator, as it were.
My spine was straight as an arrow, my chin high again, my heart beating so loud, he had to be able to hear it. It was all I could hear. The weekend had not been enough time to purge me of the memory of him, and I fought to find my footing, to build a haphazard defense, but I’d only managed to throw up a house of sticks, which everyone knew wouldn’t protect you from the Big Bad Wolf.
I stepped in and turned around to face the doors, pressing the little circle with the number four on it, feeling his eyes on me like they had been the last time we shared this space. Only last time, I hadn’t known how his lips tasted, and he hadn’t known how the most intimate part of me felt.
The elevator was painfully silent other than the whirring of the engine as it pulled us up a floor. But when the door began to open and I took a step, he halted me with a word.
“Rin…”
I shifted to look back at him, met his eyes, felt the spark of recognition deep in me that whatever words waited behind his lips were honest.
And I knew I didn’t want to hear them. I couldn’t hear them, or I might abandon the fight and my self-respect along with it.
“Please, don’t.” The words were quiet, trembling, and I hurried out of that elevator in the hopes I could escape whatever emotional bear trap he’d laid for me.
He didn’t try to stop me.
And I couldn’t figure out if that made me feel better or worse.
I spent the morning lost in research, my brain wholly occupied with the task at hand, which today was focused on the Botticelli research Bianca had asked for. And I was so deep in that research that, for a while, I forgot all about him. But by lunchtime, my stomach was rumbling, my snacks were gone, and I was regretting not bringing a sandwich with me. I reassured myself, as I put away the stack of books I’d gotten through, that I probably wouldn’t see Court. Dr. Lyons. Him. There were half a dozen cafés in the museum, and the odds of him walking into the one I chose were slim at best. I hoped.
Bag in hand, I decided to take the stairs down anyway, just in case.
I decided the American Wing Café would be my safest bet—it was cheap, which would hopefully be a deterrent in regard to his station, and it was in the crowded, public part of the museum, which seemed too loud, noisy, and common for the likes of him. I tried to imagine him sitting in a plastic chair drinking out of a bottle of Dasani and couldn’t. Although the thought of him sitting in that open, magnificent room, surrounded by statues modeled after men such as him, held its own appeal.
I had just turned to my notebook after pushing my salad away—it was the only thing I could eat with a fork, which I’d learned was necessary with the lipstick—when I heard my name. The words were deep, carried by a commanding voice that sounded so much like Court’s, they sent a shock of warning and desire through me. But when I looked up to find someone else, my brain tripped, confused as I scanned the man’s face who was walking toward my table.
He was a pillar of self-assured power in a dark charcoal suit the same color as his hair, which was neat and lush and shining under the natural light of the atrium. Shockingly, he even looked like Court, in the stony line of his jaw, the hard gleam in his eyes, his lips, chiseled from stone and higher on one side in a tilted smile, though it rose on the opposite side of the man I knew.
Standing before me was Court’s father. The president of the museum. The other Dr. Lyons.
He waved his colleague on as he came to a stop next to me. “So, you’re the new intern who has everyone talking,” he said, that smirk and his tone sending a panicked flush through me that bloomed from my chest and spread like wildfire.
Oh my God. He knows. He saw. Security cameras. There were security cameras! Oh my God. OH MY GOD.
He continued as I died a thousand deaths of shame, “Dr. Nixon told me you’ve been helping my son with his research. He seems to be very impressed with you. It’s been a while since he’s taken any interest in working with anyone but Bianca, so naturally, I’ve been curious to see what all the fuss is about. I’m Dr. Lyons,” he said, extending his hand, which I took, my tongue nearly paralyzed with overwhelming surprise.
“Nice to meet you,” I said automatically, relieved that he didn’t in fact know that his son had his hand up my skirt last week, forgetting to speak up or speak clearly. “You’re the president,” I stated stupidly, not knowing what else to say, wishing I’d said nothing at all.
He chuckled. “I am.” His hand was big and strong around mine, but it felt wrong. Something shifted behind his eyes that I didn’t understand and couldn’t place.
“I read over your recommendation letters. You’ve managed to impress some influential, hard-won people, which weighs a lot in my book. I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can achieve here. And who knows?” He leaned in a little, like he was admitting a secret. “Maybe you’ll land a permanent position here.”
I smiled, but the gesture felt stiff on my face. “That would be a dream come true, sir.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to finish your lunch,” he said, leaning in once more, this time closer.
And my shock held me still as my brain fired with ridiculous possibilities. Is he about to kiss my cheek? Or tell me something? Oh my God, he’
s so close. Is this appropriate? What if he—
“You’ve got a little something in your teeth,” was the last thing I expected. He bared his teeth and pointed to his incisor. “Right there.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, ducking my head as I ran my tongue over my teeth, finding a flapping sliver of basil lodged between them.
He chuckled. “Nice to meet you, Miss Van de Meer.”
“You too,” I said from behind my hand, the other waving like an idiot as he walked away.
And with that awkward business already beginning to replay in my mind, I hightailed it to the library where I was safe from salads and Lyons alike.
15
The Cost of Doing Business
Court
I shouldn’t have been looking for her, but I was.
Every waking minute since we’d parted and most of the sleeping ones had been spent obsessing over her, over the encounter, over my mistakes and regrets. And I’d come out of the weekend with a new plan.
Today, I would redefine the boundaries I’d crossed and apologize for crossing them in the first place. She deserved to know it wasn’t her fault. I’d broken my own code, my own rule, and I’d put myself—and her—in danger. I’d taken a tip from my father and taken advantage of an employee, putting me in a position I wasn’t interested in filling.
What has she done to me?
I had one damn rule, and I’d thrown it away after a day spent with her, one day with her long legs in stride with mine. One suspicious moment. One dressing down. One kiss.
My suspicion had been deep and complete, my accusations as painful and honest as they were loathsome. Even now, the louder, larger part of me screamed its warning. To find that she’d read up on me had triggered a chain reaction of thought as impossible to fight as gravity. And my mind had formed a presumptuous story it still largely believed—she had orchestrated our day together in a long con, starting before she even walked through the doors of the museum.
Never again would I be a pawn. Never.
But the truth remained—I needed to put the boundaries back in place, hitch up the ranch fence and divide the territory. I needed to apologize, and I needed her to know it would never happen again, not just for her sake, but for mine.
Deep in my chest, thoughts of her twisted and curled around each other, buried inside a logical, civilized facade of control. That facade held fast, reminding me I was looking for her to speak with distance about what I’d done. But the truth underneath whispered my desire to see her. To talk to her. To know she was all right and to breathe her air. And somehow, stupidly, I thought I could hold that facade in place and ignore the dark star underneath, contracting with pressure, waiting to blow that thin shell apart like shrapnel.
Apologize—that’s all you’re allowed to do. Fix it.
I’d tried to talk to her in the elevator, albeit weakly, but she’d said please, and that simple word coupled with the hurt in her eyes stayed me without understanding why.
All morning, I’d tried to distract myself with the Medici article, but the piece itself reminded me of her, every topic discussed and collaborated to the point that she was woven into the work as deeply as I was. The words were slow coming, every one fought for, my attention constantly wandering back to her. I pictured her walking away from me in that skirt and those heels as the elevator doors closed on the vision. Her hair was shorter, shinier, wavier, and I found myself both desperate to slip my fingers into it and mystifyingly annoyed that it had happened without my knowledge. Because I had opinions about her hair and its length. I had opinions about the height of her heels and the lipstick she wore, which was different too, darker and deeper.
Maybe I’d wanted her to stay frozen exactly how she was in the moment I’d touched her, as if it could prolong the truth of it, make her mine for as long as I could. Or maybe I wanted to control her.
Either way, I couldn’t.
I’d gone looking for her around lunch, hoping I could catch her during my break and hers. But she hadn’t been in the library, and my annoyance and frustration mounted as I went from café to café, starting with where we’d had lunch Friday, ending in the American Wing. Where I found her.
Talking to him.
My father stood next to her table, smirking like the son of a bitch that he was, leaning in to tell her something that made her blush. I nearly shot out of my skin at the sight of him. There. With her. But the ground had swallowed me, the marble tiles holding me as cold and still as they were, that dark star trembling with brilliant force, a screaming warning hurtling through my mind.
Logic had no place here. Boundaries meant nothing. The thin veneer of my composure fissured, cracked, split open.
He walked away.
I followed heedlessly.
My breath rasped in and out of my chest, my stride as long as his but my pace faster, driven by the mad impulse to grab him by the lapels of his fucking Italian suit and throw him into a wall.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
I caught up to him as he turned into the empty hall for the staff elevators. “What the fuck do you want with her?” I asked his back, the question echoing off the creamy stone walls.
He stopped, turning with casual grace that inspired violence in me. “I could ask you the same question.” He assessed me coolly.
And I found that I was unable to control myself, unable to maintain that pretense of calm I’d vowed to hold in his presence.
I didn’t stop walking until I was close enough to grab him, though I restrained myself, my fists clenched at my sides. “What. The fuck. Do you want?”
He had the nerve to look amused. “Just wanted to introduce myself. I try to meet all the new employees. You know that.”
Oh, did I. “Leave her alone.”
“Or…?”
“I mean it. She’s not meant for you.”
“But she’s meant for you? I thought you’d learned your lesson, Court,” he said with a condescending tsk.
“Well, you’re a great teacher,” I shot.
His face hardened. “You and Lydia never would have worked out. I saved you the trouble of having to find that out the hard way.”
A bitter laugh climbed up my throat. “Noble of you, considering you fucked her right out from under me.” I stepped into him, invading his space, our eyes level. Thunder crackled between us. “Don’t you fucking touch that intern.” The words were calm, low, sharp. “Last time, I only broke your nose. This time, I don’t think I’ll stop there.”
I turned to walk away, furious that I’d been reckless enough to hand him an ace to play. Because he’d play it. He let me go without arguing, and though I would have liked to think it was my threat that stopped him, it was the elevator doors opening to deposit a handful of staff into the hall with us that left me with the last word.
My penchant for a scathing exit was genetic.
I blew into the atrium looking for Rin, but she was gone. And rather than use that fucking elevator where my Judas patriarch had been, I opted for the stairs. The expenditure of energy was a motivator too, my heart pumping and adrenaline racing through me.
I took the stairs two at a time, Rin at the forefront of my mind and a barrage of questions at my back. Beads of sweat touched my temples, the heat between my heaving chest and my shirt radiating through me as I flew out of the stairwell and down the hall, shoving the door of the library open the second it was unlocked.
She jumped when she saw me, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise as her hand flew to her chest, pale against deep burgundy.
“What did he want from you?” I demanded as I stormed toward her.
Confusion brought her brows together, and she stood, alarmed. “Who?”
“My father.” I ground the words out like stone against stone as I closed the space between us.
She blinked. “I don’t understand—”
“Why were you talking? What did he want?” I asked, my voice rough, the scent of her hair invading my senses.
She blinked again and frowned. “He didn’t want anything. And why wouldn’t I talk to him? He’s the president of the museum. What the hell is the matter with you? You can’t just come in here and—”
“He doesn’t get to talk to you,” I said, stepping into her without fear or remorse, without care for my plan or my job or the boundaries that were supposed to be in place. There was only possession. I slipped my hand into the space behind her ear, wrapped my fingers around the back of her long neck. “He’s not worthy of making your cheeks flush like this, like they are right now.” The words were deep, rumbling in the base of my throat. “He will never touch you,” I said against her lips.
Because you’re mine.
Before she could speak, I tipped her head as I descended, pressing my lips to hers like I’d been dreaming about since the second I last kissed them. But dreams and memories paled to the real thing, to the heat of her tongue and the moan in the back of her throat, to her body arching, pressing into mine in a plea I heard in the very depths of me.
This was the moment I realized I couldn’t stay away from her. My plan—my big, strong plan—was nothing but cheap paint over the truth—I wanted her for myself. Against all judgment, against all reason. Against my will, I wanted her. And I was powerless to fight it.
I breathed deep and loud through my nose, my lungs free for the first time in days, the air crisp and hot and filled with the intoxicating scent of her. Her body wound around mine, her arms snaking around my neck, flexing to bring me closer, to raise her up, to bring her hips to mine, yearning for pressure she applied to my straining cock.
She broke away, and I buried my face in her neck.
“Why?” she whispered, her fingers slipping into my hair. “Why do you do this to me?”