by Cole McCade
“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” he said.
“The NYPD might have something to say about that.”
“You hate me enough to call the cops? That’s a new record, even for me.”
With a frustrated sound, Zero yanked the door open and glared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to make amends.” He held up a plastic bag. Steam filtered past the edges, reeking of curry and vindaloo. “I brought dinner.” He grinned, quirky and one-sided. “Well, late lunch.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I hate Indian food.”
“Which is why I also brought sushi.” He held up a second bag, dangling from his other hand. “If you hate that too, you’re not human.”
“Being funny isn’t going to help.”
“Not even a little?”
“You lied to get in my pants, Evan,” she bit off.
“I didn’t. I mean, I did omit the truth. But it’s not as nefarious as you’re making it sound. I’m not this evil plotting mastermind scheming to get laid. I don’t even have a decent evil laugh.” He sighed, letting the bags drop in a rustle of plastic, his shoulders sagging. “Look, I screwed up. I know I screwed up. And now I’m trying to be an adult, apologize, and make it up to you. Could you be an adult and hear me out?”
She stiffened. “Are you calling me childish?”
“You’ve been sulking since I met you.”
“Your brownie points are dropping by the second, mister.”
“I’m just being honest.”
She ground her teeth and looked away. She had been sulking since they’d met, but he didn’t have to be so blunt about it; especially when she had every right to be angry right now, and there was nothing childish about that. But he was standing there looking so earnest—and annoyingly sexy—and she was hungry. And he owed her an apology.
She could at least let him grovel a bit before she kicked him out.
Don’t let him in, she told herself, before sighing and stepping back from the door. “You’ve got until I finish eating,” she warned. “Then you’re gone.”
“Then I’d better hope you eat slowly.” He stepped inside and kicked the door shut in his wake—and as she nearly ran from him, leading him toward the couch, the heat of him washed against her back. Overpowering. Far too close.
God, why the hell had she let him in?
CHAPTER FIVE
WELL, AT LEAST SHE HADN’T slammed the door in his face.
She’d been tempted; he could tell by the look in those simmering blue eyes. Even if it was hard to keep his eyes on her face when she’d answered the door in nothing but a tight t-shirt and pale green gym shorts so short they were practically panties, hugging curving hips and baring miles and miles of dusky legs. God, she barely came up to his rib cage. How the hell did someone that tiny have legs that long?
“Hey.” She flicked her fingers. “Eyes up here.”
He dragged his gaze up, making sure not to linger too long on the white t-shirt clinging to her chest, translucent in spots from the water dripping from her hair. Maybe coming here had been a bad idea. He wanted the little minx all over again, right here against the very same wall where he’d made her gasp his name. The throbbing in his gut refused to die, hard and heavy and heated.
“I was just admiring your rug,” he said.
“The rug’s a few feet below my hips. Maybe you should get your eyes checked.”
“I’d say my eyes are just fine.”
“Fine, then you could stop lying, how’s that?” She flung herself down on her plush, cozy loveseat, deep red patterned in exotic designs in gold brocade, draped in vividly colored afghans. With a needling look, she pointed at the coffee table. “Fork over the food and start talking.”
Evan shrugged out of his jacket and sank down next to her, setting the bags on the coffee table—only to double-take when he realized it was a glass door, propped up on legs made of odd twisted metal sculptures. “…is this a door?”
“Yeah. My friend Ravi made it. He likes working with reclaimed materials; the legs are from a fire grate.” She spoke reluctantly, but her voice warmed as her gaze flicked over the table.
“Sounds like someone you’re close to.”
She shrugged stiffly. “We’ve been friends since college. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Not trying to pry. Just observing.”
“No more of your psychobabble tricks, okay? Not on me. My brother tries that shit all the time. It doesn’t work.” She stood, padded across the room to the fridge, and yanked it open to retrieve two bottles of green apple Smirnoff Ice. “I let you in to give you one fair chance to explain yourself. So either start explaining, or get out.”
She pried the caps off the drinks, then thunked them down on the table hard enough to make them wobble. As he looked up into her wild eyes, taking in the hot flush of anger and embarrassment in her cheeks, he wondered for the millionth time since he’d gotten in the cab why he was doing this. She was just a one-night stand. He didn’t owe her anything.
But he liked her. He hadn’t liked anyone in a long time, and he’d already screwed it up. He could at least try to make it right, even if she never spoke to him again.
Even if he wasn’t sure why it mattered, when he was leaving at the end of the week.
He laid out little plastic trays and paper-wrapped chopsticks. “I went with ebi nigiri, California rolls, and spicy tuna,” he stalled. “Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about raw fish, so I played it safe.”
“I’ll take it, as long as there’s edamame.”
He set out the tray of soybean pods and a packet of salt, then grinned when she pounced on them. “That’s okay, I didn’t want any anyway.”
“Shut up,” she said, muffled as she popped a little green soybean right out of the pod and into her mouth.
“I thought you wanted me to talk.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He studied her; ripples of damp hair coiled over her shoulders. Black. No more red tips. He reached for the dark locks, unable to help himself. But when she flinched back, her entire body going stiff, he froze with his fingers outstretched.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice strained.
“Sorry.” He let his hand fall, an odd pang tightening his chest. “I liked your hair better the way it was.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“Right.” Evan exhaled heavily and leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch and propping a tray of California rolls on his thigh. He turned over his thoughts for a few moments more as he stripped the paper from his chopsticks, gaze idly roving the room, lingering on a green cone of half-burnt incense in a tray by the window. He’d bet that’s where the scent of green apples came from—the scent that clung to her even now, nearly drugging him with her nearness. He wanted to touch her, wanted to wrap himself in the living warmth of her, but if he so much as reached for her she’d kill him. She didn’t need him to be all hands right now. She needed him to be honest.
Not one of his strongest career skills, but he’d try.
“Look,” he said, choosing his words carefully, wondering if she’d even believe him. “I’m not good at connecting with people. I’m good at pretending to. I put on this mask and act like I’m this charming, outgoing guy with a slick one-liner for every situation.” He shrugged. “And then I escape as soon as I can, because every time I try to be real I screw it up just like I screwed up with you. I can’t stay in friendships. I can’t stay in relationships. I can’t even stay in one place for long. This job suits me, because I get to leave when it’s over.”
While he’d talked, she’d curled up in the far corner of the couch with her knees tucked up against her chest and a pod of edamame held in both hands like a little bright-eyed squirrel. She watched him over it as she nibbled, her eyes wary. “Why are you like that?”
Evan groaned. “You’re really not going to forgive me until I bare it all
, are you?”
“Who says I’m going to forgive you?”
“I’m hoping.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth, ready to spool off a slick, easy line, then made himself stop. God, this honesty thing was going to kill him. “Because…because most people take me at face value,” he struggled out. “You didn’t. That scares me a little, Z.” It was almost freeing to say it out loud. To admit it, even if he was confessing to someone who had every reason to scorn him. Something about those big blue eyes just pulled it out of him. Guilt wasn’t something he was familiar with, but he felt like he was paying for a lifetime of guilt-free living right now. “You got under my skin. I guess I’m hoping if I debase myself enough you’ll take me off that ‘do not call’ list.”
“You don’t even know me.” She eyed him.
“I’m trying to fix that.” He snapped his chopsticks apart a little harder than he meant to. With a deep breath, he made himself relax his grip. “And I’m trying to let you get to know me so you realize I’m not really the devil.”
“You could try not avoiding my question.”
“It’s really annoying to be this transparent to someone I just met.” Evan fidgeted with his chopsticks, picking up a maki roll before putting it down again. He couldn’t eat when his mouth felt this dry. “Right. Why I’m like this.”
He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Dredging up things he hadn’t thought about in years, psychoanalyzing himself for some slip of a girl he’d hardly known for a day, after four hours of meaningless conversation followed by twenty minutes of equally meaningless sex.
If it was really that meaningless, would you be here?
He wasn’t drunk enough for this.
He snagged one of the drinks from the table and took a long draught. Too sweet. He’d have preferred a good vodka, even beer, but it’d have to do to loosen his tongue. He made himself swallow it; easier to get that down than to force the words up. But she was still watching him, still waiting, expecting something. He exhaled slowly.
“I wish I had an easy answer for you,” he began. “My life is about giving people easy answers that don’t really mean anything. Any answer that would matter wouldn’t be easy. But I suppose where you kept losing your home throughout your life, I kept losing people.” He made himself look at her, at her curious, guarded gaze. Was he wasting his time, when she’d still hate him when it was over? “My mother had four miscarriages after I was born, all before I was ten years old. Four times I kept hoping I’d have a little brother or sister to love, and losing them. The fifth time she carried to term, but after so many miscarriages…she died in childbirth during premature labor.”
His voice thickened into a wooden knot lodged in his throat. He hated remembering this. Hated remembering who he’d been, then. Weak and broken and hurting. But he made himself keep speaking, made himself say, “My little sister Lina was born weak, and barely lasted a week. After that it was just me and my father, and he buried himself in his work so he wouldn’t have to face his grief.” He thought his body would crack from the tension coiling through him, but he forced a shrug, dropping his eyes. “It left me pretty alone. I like to tell myself I didn’t feel it when he died in a car accident when I was sixteen. We were already so detached from each other…I didn’t want to feel anything. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”
He didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes. He’d spent his entire life avoiding pity, and refusing to feel sorry for himself. Life only moved forward; there was no going back, no point in looking back on old hurts. He’d made a life that worked for him, and he didn’t need complications.
But one very lovely complication was watching him, silent save for the faint shudder of her breath. When he looked up, her eyes glistened, her lips parted. She’d crumbled the edamame to little shreds of green in her fingertips. No pity. He didn’t know what emotion glimmered in her eyes, but it wasn’t pity. He didn’t understand her. He couldn’t read her, though it seemed like she could see right through him.
Maybe that was a good thing. Hard to fall into his manipulative habits when he couldn’t figure out how to get to her.
He looked away from those wide blue eyes and trembling lashes. With a deep swig of his drink, he finished it off, then set the bottle down. “To me, being close to people means losing them, Zoraya.”
“You don’t have anyone?” she asked, a subtle tremor in her voice.
“I never needed anyone.” He let out a bitter bark of laughter and captured another California roll in his chopsticks. “You’re probably thinking this is just some dramatic sob story to get you to sleep with me again.”
“The thought crossed my mind.” She dragged a hand through her tangled hair, then reached for her drink. “So you’re always living a fake life to avoid living a real one. So you can’t get hurt if you lose someone else.”
Evan inhaled sharply, then forced down the scraping feeling in his throat by filling his mouth with the maki roll, chewing, and swallowing. “Stings when you put it that way.”
“Sorry.”
“No…it’s okay.” He shook his head and pushed one of the trays toward her. “I’ve just never told anyone that before.”
She uncurled enough to snag the tray and prop it against her thighs. “Why would you tell me?”
“Because I feel like a massive jerk and it’s only fair that I answer your questions.”
Her lips twitched, before a slow, reluctant smile broke across her lips; his chest tightened to see it, and he wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
“You are kind of a massive jerk,” she said, and he couldn’t help but laugh, the hollowness in the pit of his stomach easing.
“Still feels good to make you smile.”
“It’s only temporary.” She grinned and popped a piece of nigiri into her mouth.
Evan leaned back against the couch, letting himself look at her. Letting himself want her for just a moment, even if he doubted he was really off the hook. It was nice to just relax with her, like last night at the bar—even if he still ached in that heavy place just below his ribs, after dredging up things he tried to spend his life forgetting. “So you’re really going to hold a grudge forever because I changed the dress code at your job?”
Her smile turned pensive. She looked down at her food, then away, watching the snow fall through the window—where the street lights glowed golden through the glass like candles in sconces.
“It’s not about that, not really,” she said, then fell silent to take a few more bites of her sushi. He waited her out until she was ready to talk again, her voice quiet and low and thoughtful. “It’s about feeling powerless when all I’ve ever wanted is to stand on my own.” She laughed. “I guess that’s the curse of the twenty-something. Realizing how powerless you are in the face of the giant profit machine. Probably makes me sound whiny.”
“Maybe,” he said neutrally, wondering at the sadness that hung over her in a cloud. Wondering what she was wishing for, what she’d reached for and failed to grasp. He lingered over a sip of his drink, then offered, “I’m not powerless.”
“No, but you’re preying on people who are.” She returned her gaze to him, brows knitting. “How can you do it? Going through life just…making everyone miserable.”
“It’s not about making people miserable,” he pointed out. “It’s about making people money. Your company makes good money, more chance you make better money. And right now, in this market, there’s no money in nurturing special snowflakes in the hopes they’ll have a multibillion dollar spark of creativity. That gamble pays out less than the lottery. Right now the money is in shareholders and investors. And to attract those, they need a company that looks professional. Not like someone went emo on a pack of Bratz dolls.”
She stared at him, hurt flickering in her eyes, and he cursed himself. He couldn’t have said that a bit more tactfully, no. He had to go and be a fucking idiot.
“That
’s low, Evan.” She dumped her sushi tray on the table.
He groaned and dragged a hand over his face. He was in it now; might as well see it through. “Look. I’m doing my job. You’re not the only one who has bills to pay. Don’t blame me because your company hired me.”
“Do you actually believe all the bullshit you spout up there?”
“I don’t need to believe it. I just need to sell it.”
She sniffed, uncurling her legs and sliding to her feet. “I thought you were trying to convince me you weren’t a smarmy asshole.”
“Did I say that?” He snorted. “I thought you were trying to convince me you weren’t a self-indulgent hipster.”
She froze mid-stride. A deadly quiet settled over her, her eyes brimming with a storm. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked quietly.
“I mean if changing your clothes and dyeing your hair creates this massive identity crisis, you must be pretty insecure about who you are.”
“Excuse me?”
God, he hated the way she was looking at him. Hated this sick, guilty feeling welling in his chest. Who was she to make him question his life, and what he did? This was the real world. This was business.
And he never should have mixed business with pleasure.
“I mean,” he said, shoving his food onto the table, “you’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve judging me for what I do when you can’t even function in the adult world.”
Her lips parted, trembled. Her fists clenched; her breath heaved and shuddered with the force of the tension rippling through her slight frame. He had a passing thought that she was lovely when she was angry, incandescent, before she hissed, “So much for thinking you were growing a conscience. At least I didn’t lie.”
“No, but you won’t let me forget it.” With a snarl, he stood. “Grow up, Zoraya.”
“I think it’s time for you to go.”
But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when everything in him was screaming that this was wrong. He’d come to fix his fuckup, to try to at least make peace with this odd, beautiful woman who made him question himself in ways he couldn’t stand. Who made it so easy for him to just talk to her, just so that harsh look in her eyes would soften and she’d stop watching him like she was waiting for the next horrible lie to come out of his mouth.
