Chapter Eleven
Cris
By the end of the week I’m fairly certain the conversation at the restaurant was a vivid hallucination.
I could have sworn Benji’s offer meant he’d be in hot pursuit, but he backed off. We left Grand Marin after breakfast, which was delicious once I committed to eating instead of melting into a puddle of hormonal goo at his feet, and then we returned to the office. Other than a few teasing winks, which I thought (and hoped) would lead to more, nothing physical happened between us. The only other time he touched me that day was when he gripped my hips to slide me to one side and open the refrigerator while I waited for my coffee to brew.
Then…nothing.
He wasn’t being rude. He didn’t seem upset. But this isn’t the same “friend” who didn’t touch me before either. We don’t act like two people who recently spent intimate time together. Was it so impersonal for him?
Gone was the dirty-talking Benji reciting numbers to me in the most delightfully filthy way. Gone was the “let’s try a bit of everything” talk.
Maybe he’s distracted and the change has nothing to do with me. This could be Benji being Benji. He has a habit of hyperfocusing on whatever task is at hand. Unfortunately, life-coach Cris shares headspace with received-orgasm-from-Benji Cris. The waters are completely muddied.
So much for things not getting complicated.
But it doesn’t have to be complicated, I find myself arguing. The benefit of him being my best friend and my boss is I know how him well. He’s been rushing around here the last few days, eyes unfocused, phone in hand as he swipes the screen and refreshes his email. He’s impatient. He’s distracted. He zones out at his laptop when he’s not rushing around.
I refilled his water several times this week. He paused to flash me a grateful smile each time. It wasn’t a seductive one, though. It’s his default smile, the amenable one he shares with everyone. I can tell the difference.
I stretch in my chair and check the clock. It’s after six, and I should have gone home by now. My stomach rumbles, reminding me the granola bar I ate for lunch is long gone. I stand and look out my office window. The clouds hang low as a light spring rain sweeps over the yard. It’s peaceful, and after a stressful week I could use some peace. Unfortunately, it’s also making me tired. I yawn behind my hand.
After a quick bathroom trip, I pack up. I’m not sure what happened to Benji. I heard him on a conference call an hour ago, but then his voice faded as he moved from his office to pace through the house. He likes to walk around while he talks. Although I’m not sure if it’s a preference as much as it’s a compulsion. He’s always had restless energy to burn.
Purse and laptop bag hooked on my shoulder, I stroll into the kitchen to grab my tumbler drying on the dish rack when I hear a quiet snore from the living room. I set my things down on the counter and round the couch. Found him.
He’s lying on his back, eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar. He sucks in a heavy breath, and I squat down in front of him. I’m trying to decide whether to tell him I’m leaving, or if I should let him sleep.
I move to stand, but my eyes snag on the sight of his body sprawled the length of the couch. His button-down shirt, purple and white checked today, is rumpled but still partially tucked into charcoal gray slacks. The dark leather belt matches his shoes, Ferragamos of course. Him and his fancy footwear. He’s beautiful. Just sinfully gorgeous. I sigh, my hands on my knees as I begin to stand. I purposely resist the urge to look at his face where his dark lashes are probably fluttering in sleep, and his thick hair is tossed rakishly over his forehead. There’s only so much torture a girl can take.
A hand catches my wrist before I stand all the way up. When I jerk my attention down, I find those dark lashes shadowing open eyes. He blinks. Slowly. He doesn’t say anything as he tugs my wrist. I sit on the cushion and twist to face him. Given the limited space, I have to lean one arm on the back of the sofa—the one he isn’t holding.
He licks his full bottom lip. I stare at the dampness, wanting to lean in and have a taste.
“You were sleeping,” I say to break the silence.
His grin is honey slow and his heavy-lidded eyes lower in another sexy blink. This man kills me. He’s a god fallen to earth and I’m a mortal, weakened by his beauty.
So, I offer no excuse when I curve my body toward him and put my lips on his. The kiss is sweet, brief.
Too brief.
When I would’ve stopped, he lets go of my wrist and uses his hand to cup my jaw. He pulls my mouth to his and kisses me again. This kiss is sweet like the last one but unlike the last one, not brief. He lingers, his lips on mine for a deliciously long time. Long enough for my heart to shimmy around my chest untethered, knocking into my ribcage like a drunk at a rave.
“What’s wrong, Firecracker?” he asks against my mouth. “Am I moving too slow for you?”
I have to process the question. I think of the past few days, my worry that he was no longer interested. My frustration at not knowing how to act or what to say.
I back away and frown. “Is that what you’re doing?”
He props himself up on an elbow. “No.”
I let out a disbelieving grunt.
“I didn’t realize you were in a hurry.”
“I’m not.” Defensiveness is a bad look on anyone. On me especially. I’m unaccustomed to asking for what I want, to putting anyone out for what I want.