by Cole McCade
“No, sorry. Fish don’t have legs. I can’t leave you to flop on the floor.”
“Evan!”
“Really,” he said, carting her across the tiny apartment, “it’s just chivalry.”
He ducked under the loft section and into her enclosed little sleeping area; the top of his head barely cleared the entrance, and her back dragged against the overhang before the world spun by as he flipped her down and deposited her unceremoniously on the bed. Chuckling, she kicked her shoes off and pushed her stocking feet against his chest, shoving him back.
“How did I know you’d gravitate straight toward the bed?”
“We haven’t needed a bed yet.” He curled one long, square hand around her ankle, idly stroking his thumb over the crest of her foot. “I didn’t come here to sleep with you again, Z.”
“You say that every time.”
“I’ll prove it.” Gently lowered her legs—then lowered himself, bracing one knee to the edge of the bed and both hands to either side of her. He blocked out the light from the living room, filling the entrance to the alcove with his bulk, his heat, his scent. In the darkness pale green eyes glowed, holding her, as he leaned down to kiss her.
His lips were soft against hers, chaste, brushing so gently her insides knotted up and her fingers clenched into little fists, nails digging into her palms. He shouldn’t kiss her this way. Like a few days of fighting and sex and lies actually meant something. Like being able to stay here with her meant something. She didn’t want to feel this, this slow quiet warmth stealing through her—but she couldn’t help it. He was the fire that burned her…and the hearth that warmed her, soothing away that ache.
Slowly, his mouth parted from hers. He looked down at her without a word—then pulled away with one last sweet brush of lips to lips before he disappeared past the varnished wood walls of the little nook. Whispers of leather on cloth rose.
“Get ready for bed.” His voice drifted back. “We’ve both got an early day tomorrow.”
Zero twisted onto her hands and knees to peek out of the alcove, watching as he hung his jacket up, unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it down over powerful bare shoulders. Each moment revealed more of that thorned and jagged tattoo that looked like the mark of a fallen angel. Biting her lip, flushed in a fever heat all the way down her throat, she pulled back and wriggled out of her jeans, kicking them off to puddle on the floor outside before slipping her hands under her shirt to unsnap her bra. That was pretty much her idea of getting ready for bed; she usually slept in the shirt and panties she’d worn that day, though she supposed she’d have to start actually putting on pajamas after work now that she had her new identity as a corporate zombie.
At least I get to be some kind of zombie. Polished on the outside, brain-eater on the inside.
She laughed to herself and scooted back against the pillows. She was such a dork sometimes. While she waited for him, she flicked on the lights in the alcove. Strings of icicle lights bloomed across the walls in little firefly-sparks of gold, interspersed with the soft amber glow of tiny paper lanterns. She’d painted the ceiling and inner walls of the alcove with trailing branches of drifting green leaves, until the entire room looked like a green-gold faerie glade cupping to nestle her bed in an isolated little pocket of forest.
Evan ducked inside, sliding onto the bed on his hands and knees. He’d stripped down to nothing but a pair of white boxer-briefs turned tawny where they stretched thin over his tan, taut hide. He was too large for the enclosed little nook, oppressively so, filling it until the temperature skyrocketed. Zero watched him with her tongue caught between her teeth as he prowled toward her, knees sinking deep into the thick layers of heaped duvets. A slow, cunning smile spread across his lips as he drew closer. Closer. Practically stalking her like a wild animal, until the caging heat of him pressed her against the headboard. His lips hovered over hers; her breath came short and quick as she looked up into pale eyes that reflected the lights like dancing sun-motes.
“Zoraya,” he whispered, lips grazing hers, her name falling from his lips like sinful chocolate drops.
She swallowed the thick lump in her throat. It took everything in her not to lean in close—not to run her fingers over that soft burr of close-cropped hair, curl her fingers against his nape, and kiss him. “Y-yes?”
“I have a question for you.”
Oh God. Oh God, he was going to say something awful and she was going to go belly up and end up naked. “Um.” She licked her lips. “What?”
His head tilted. His lips parted. His eyes lidded. And he rumbled, “…why the fuck do you have five hundred blankets on your bed?”
She blinked. What? Wait—what? “Oh, you asshole.”
Bursting into laughter, she shoved him. He toppled over, landing in a floof of the dozen-odd duvets and quilts she kept layered on her bed, laughing as he snared her in his arms and tugged her close. She felt every deep rolling chuckle vibrating into her as she snuggled into the crook of his arm, resting her head to his shoulder.
“Old building,” she explained. “Radiator heat craps out in the middle of the night sometimes. You ever tried to sleep through a New York winter with no heat?”
“So you sleep on the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man?”
“I like to be prepared.”
He poked his finger into the topmost duvet. It sank in almost to the last knuckle, pillowing around his hand. “I feel like it’s eating me.”
“It is. Zombie bed wants to eat your flesh.”
He snorted and gave her a skeptical look. “What is your thing with zombies? Your desk looks like Night of the Living Dead threw up all over a Sanrio store.”
“I don’t know. They’re fun. It’s kind of a thing, you know? Cultural. About how we all fear death, but we fear the unknown after it even more. And we’re all afraid of being crushed in the faceless horde of society.” She shrugged, grinning. “Plus I get to imagine myself as the lone survivor ahead of the slavering hordes. Inevitably I’m some scrappy antihero with a heart of gold. I may or may not have a son that I repeatedly refer to as ‘Caaauuurl.’”
“Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?”
Zero groaned. He was hopeless. She walked her fingers up his chest, then tapped the tip of his nose. “You. Me. Netflix. Walking Dead marathon. Tomorrow night.”
Evan sprawled on his back, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m too old for this shit.”
“You’re too old to be in my bed.”
“Am I?”
“Mmhm.” With a laugh, she crawled up to wriggle under the topmost layer of blankets, nestling herself between and making a Zero sandwich out of the duvets. “Tuck me in, Grandpa.”
“Brat.”
With a mock-disgusted look, Evan shifted to slide himself under the covers, settling himself against her and trapping their body heat together under a layer of insulation. Zero thought even if the heat went out tonight, she wouldn’t need her extra blankets. Not when he radiated warmth. Her fire, she thought, and closed her eyes against the knowledge that he wasn’t really hers—and she didn’t want him to be. A temporary truce didn’t make one bit of difference. She didn’t even like him.
Yet she didn’t resist when his arm slid under her once more, gathering her into the hard angles of him. “I like this,” he murmured, looking up at the lights. “It’s like your own little world, all in soft gold.” His lips pressed into her hair; a teasing edge softened his voice. “Even if it’s a little claustrophobic.”
She chuckled and nosed her shoulder, resting her hand to his chest. “It wasn’t made for oversized assholes.”
“Really? I think I fit here just fine.”
He caught the hand against his chest and drew it away. His fingers slid down to encircle her wrist in warmth and carefully controlled strength, nearly swallowing her in the sheer size of his grasp. He held her arm high, studying it, his thumb stroking over the line of zeros and ones tattooed around her wrist, tracing each number one after the other with the very
tip of his thumbnail until she shivered, fingers curling.
“I know what this says.”
“Since when can you read binary?”
He turned his head to look down at her. “Remember lunch?”
“All those stormy and tumultuous hours ago?”
“Seriously, you are such a brat.” He chuckled. “I wasn’t just writing down what you said. I wrote down the numbers, then Googled them.”
“Cheating. No geek points for you.” Still she flushed, something secret inside her brimming with a quiet and sweet pleasure that he’d even bothered. She hid her face against his shoulder, peeking over the hard curve of muscle with a tentative smile. “What does it say, then?”
He only continued to trace that line of numbers in silence. Something strange shuttered his eyes, locking some of his warmth behind protective glass, where she couldn’t touch. “It says love,” he said, then let her wrist go.
She pulled her arm against her chest. “Let me guess, you don’t believe in love, either.”
“Hard to have love when you never even stay anywhere long enough for like.”
“And you like it that way, right?”
“Maybe.” He reached over to flick the lights off. Darkness plunged over them, all shadows and a faint hint of gold from the single window looking in on the little alcove, street lights still awake when all the world was asleep. Their light was warm as his voice was cold when he said, “We both have to work in the morning.”
“Right.” Zero rolled over, giving him her back, and tucked herself to curl up against him. “Goodnight, Evan.”
He said nothing. But as the heavy warmth of his arm settled over her and his solid bulk fitted against her back, she wondered how she could fall asleep so very close to him—and yet feel so utterly alone.
CHAPTER TEN
HE WAS GONE BY THE time she woke.
The wrinkles he’d left in the bed had grown cold, but she could still smell the fresh wet scent of the shower and soap left behind not long ago, mingled with the aroma of coffee. Rubbing her eyes, Zero sat up with a yawn, and told herself she didn’t give a damn if he wanted to skip out on her. He was still an ass. And he’d only asked to sleep over for the night, not play domestic over breakfast.
But when she crawled out of her little alcove, she found a steaming paper cup of coffee waiting for her in the kitchen nook, next to a wrapped lemon cake square—and a note, written in slanting, daggerlike slasher-flick handwriting.
Mocha latte. In case you thought I forgot. Still working on those good graces.
Had to go for a morning meeting. Interviewing Alejandro today, too. Pray I survive. See you at the office. Wear the green top.
-E
Fucking idiot. Still a fucking asshole.
But despite herself, Zero smiled.
And, nibbling on her lemon cake, went to dig in her wardrobe for any top but the green one.
She ended up with a sheer pale blue sleeveless top over a black camisole, paired with crisp straight-legged black slacks and a matching fitted half-jacket. And boots. Heeled, trendy little boots, but still boots—so she could get off the elevator without landing on her face. She still felt strange wearing clothing Evan had bought for her. Torn. Pride said she never should have taken it. Common sense said she needed it. But something else—something stupid and emotional and increasingly too susceptible to his backwards, fumbling, assholeish charm—wanted to do something for him in return, even if she couldn’t afford more than a fraction of what he’d spent on her.
Yeah. Like he’d want anything from her.
She took a few minutes to transfer her belongings from her messenger bag to the glossy black leather satchel they’d snagged on their way out the store last night. With the stiff thing hanging from her shoulder, she didn’t feel like herself. She didn’t look like herself, when she studied her reflection in the mirror: hair lifted off her neck save a few trailing tendrils, makeup subtle and chic, tattoo half-covered by a little gold tennis bracelet. She looked like someone who could walk into a room and dominate it. A shark just like Evan. There was a certain appeal in that, she thought. Looking powerful made her feel powerful.
There might be something to his bullshit after all.
She pulled on her thick, warm new town coat and headed out to catch her train—and managed to only trip on her boots once on her way to the office. The front desk receptionist did a double-take as she breezed past, and she couldn’t help a secret smile as she chirped “Good morning, Jake!” before stepping into the crowded elevator.
But her smile faded as she found herself crushed up against Alejandro—who stood rigid in a wrinkled, half-tucked white button-down and khakis just an inch or two too short. He looked so uncomfortable, and she almost felt sorry for him…until he looked down at her with his upper lip curled in a sneer.
“Nice outfit.”
Zero’s heart sank. So much for hoping he would cool off and let it go. She ground her teeth and lifted her chin, looking up at the numbers flicking by. “Thanks for noticing,” she said, then swept off the elevator with her head held high.
She felt like the click of her boots drew every eye to her. The Jezebel. The underhanded little girl who slept around to keep her job. Were they tallying her price tag? Could they see his touch all over the clothing he’d bought for her, like she’d tattooed the credit card receipt on her forehead?
It didn’t matter. She knew the truth. And friends who wanted to judge her based on their nasty little assumptions weren’t friends worth keeping.
At her desk, she peeled the George Romero posters from her cube walls and rolled them up, then carefully tucked her plushies away inside her satchel. Alejandro leaned over the top of her cubicle, lips still curled in that damnable sneer.
“You’re seriously going through with it?’
“It’s part of the job.” She shrugged and tucked Zombie Hello Kitty safely in a corner pocket. “Just doing what I have to do.”
“Sell-out.”
Zero closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Don’t let it get to her. She couldn’t. “Grow up, Ale,” she said. “Just…grow up.”
With a derisive sound, he turned and walked away.
Groaning, Zero sank into her chair. She just…had to let this blow over. And until then, she had work to do—and didn’t have time to think about infuriating men. Either of them.
She managed to avoid thinking about Evan for a good four hours, while she plowed through a backlog of bug reports and code fixes. There was something immensely satisfying about whipping a program into shape, finding all those little problems no one else could ferret out and coming up with just the right solution, the perfect elegant little line of code to make everything fall into place. It was enough to make her forget Evan, forget Alejandro’s nastiness, forget the whispers around her, forget even the itchy slacks trying to crawl up her ass while she lost herself in her work.
Until a new email notification dinged in her taskbar, flashing New Message from evanevenstevens@gmail.com. She paused, the sound of keyboard gunfire silencing, and arched a brow. Evan Even Stevens? He had to be fucking kidding her. She fought back a smile as she pulled up Outlook and clicked the message.
Hey, beautiful, he wrote. Sneak out through the back way and meet me in the alley on your break. We’ll go for lunch.
Zero tilted her head, then fired back an answering email. There is no “back way.” I don’t think there’s even an alley.
She’d barely closed her email before another notification popped up. Okay, well just meet me at that little skewers cart down the street. Try not to be seen. Cloak and dagger.
Okay, Mr. Bond.
James, he sent back. Evan James.
She bit back a laugh, then rattled off, Stop emailing me. I’m trying to work.
And not two seconds later… Yes, ma’am.
…that’s still emailing me.
Stop replying.
You stop replying!
Nothing. Dead silence; empty i
nbox. She glanced over her shoulder, but he was nowhere in sight. Must be on the top floor with the C-level hotshots. Shaking her head, she pulled up the code compiler window again—only for another notification to flash.
…I stopped.
Go home, Evan. You’re drunk.
I’m laughing like an idiot, and your CEO is giving me crazy looks.
With an amused, exasperated sigh, Zero sent back one last email. Goodbye, Evan. I’ll see you at lunch.
That’s my girl, came back, and she froze, heart twisting tight.
When the hell had she become his girl?
She pushed the thought out of her head. It was just a figure of speech. And she wasn’t fucking going there, because she would hate herself forever if she had to admit out loud that he was starting to get under her skin. There was something bizarrely endearing about a guy willing to keep making an ass out of himself however many times it took to make amends, even if she couldn’t figure out why.
She dove back into work, but spent the next half-hour watching the clock instead of her screen. She wasn’t that eager to see him again. She couldn’t be. And she wasn’t in the slightest hurry when she locked her workstation, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the elevator. As she followed the sidewalk flow down the street toward the skewers cart, she straightened her coat. Calm. Cool. Composed.
So why did her heart start bouncing on her stomach like a trampoline when she saw him lounging on the sidewalk near the cart, standing head and shoulders above the crowd?
His slow, cunning smile spread across his lips when he caught sight of her; he raised a hand as she drew closer. “Hey.”
Rough fingers curled against her waist and drew her in. In his other hand he balanced two Styrofoam trays. Without so much as an if-you-please, he pressed warm lips to her cheek, lingering with a familiarity that made her ache, as if he had any right to kiss her in public. As if he had some claim on her. And she closed her eyes and let him, sinking into the heated sensation of contact, the momentary roughness of his beard against her skin, the crispness of his suit brushing against her, saturated in his scent. God, what the hell had she stumbled into?
