“Sounds like you have a crush.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Then what would you call it?”
“I’d like to call it nothing,” I say. “Unfortunately, the more I hate him, the more my body wants him. It’s like my head is wired one way and my body does the exact opposite. This has never happened before, Mel. I don’t know what to do.”
It suddenly occurs to me that I never got a chance to do a little research on his mom. The way he reacted earlier, practically jerking the picture out of my hand and gifting me with that steely gaze, was unnerving, and that’s saying a lot considering the source.
I drag my laptop across my bed and transfer the call to my computer.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Look something up real quick.”
“No.” She uncaps a jar of Tatcha moisturizer, patting it into her skin. “No, I mean, what are you going to do about your little crush?”
I shrug, pulling up the elder Calder’s Wikipedia page. On the left hand side, it lists his spouses. He’s on number four, it would seem. Number one, who passed away sixteen years ago this month, was named Gwyneth.
There’s no link to her name, and a cursory search for Gwyneth Welles gives me a generic obituary, stating she passed away unexpectedly at the age of thirty-six and she was survived by her husband and twelve-year-old son.
That’s it.
Regardless of how she passed, he was just a child. It must have been devastating, traumatic. And then to have a workaholic, self-involved father on top of that? No wonder he’s so callous. It’s not about me—he’s angry at the world.
“Are you going to sleep with him again?” she asks.
“Not if I can help it.” A rush of heat between my thighs begs to differ.
“KNOCK, KNOCK …”
I glance up from my desk to find Keane standing before me, a white ceramic mug with a tea bag tag dangling over the side.
“I know you don’t drink coffee, but I thought I could interest you in some Earl Grey?”
She places it atop a paper coaster on my desk, rotating it so the handle is oriented to my right.
“Did you have a good weekend?” she asks.
“Really, Keane?”
“What?” She takes a step back.
“You’re going to waste both of our time with small talk? You do realize I have a board meeting in fifteen minutes.” I feel bad for snapping at her. Honest. I do. But there needs to be distance between us, a wedge. I need her to hate me. I need her to stay away from me because all I want to do is be near her.
I can’t recall a single moment over the weekend when I wasn’t thinking about Aerin. The softness of her lips. Her delicate gait. The rhythmic way she grinded against me in the bathroom last week, her nails digging into my flesh. The look on her face when she climaxed … but every time I replayed those moments, images of her laughing with that scrub-wearing, TV-looking doctor replaced them all, and I was instantly reminded that Keane is the one thing I can’t have.
Her hand hooks on her hip. “Seriously? I bring you tea and ask how your weekend was and that’s your response?”
“We don’t have to be friends just because we slept together, Keane,” I say.
She spins on her kitten heel, rushing for the door and closing it.
“And you don’t have to bring me tea,” I say.
“It was a gesture of goodwill.”
“Noted. And thank you for that. But I think the less we see each other, the better,” I say.
Her brows meet, and she begins to say something but stops. “Why are you acting like you’re dumping me and we weren’t even dating?”
“Not dumping you, Keane. Just saying, I’d like to keep things as professional as possible for the remainder of your time here.”
“You know, the more you try and act like it’s your idea to keep your hands to yourself, the less I believe you,” she says. “It’s like you’re overcompensating.”
She’s onto me.
Aerin takes a step closer, arms folded tight across her chest where the top pearl button of her gray cardigan seems to have come undone.
“You’re more than welcome to believe what you want to believe,” I say.
“You want to kiss me right now.” Her mouth turns into a smile, though it isn’t a sweet smile.
And her words aren’t cute.
They’re a dare.
“Again, feel free to believe what you—”
“—you want to, don’t you?” she asks. “Just admit it.”
“Why should I? And what does it matter? What difference would it make?”
Her eyes hold on mine, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. “I … I don’t know. I guess … it wouldn’t matter.”
Aerin’s arms fall limp at her sides.
“You bring out these pieces of me I never knew existed before,” she says, “and I spent all weekend trying to understand why.”