Page 46 of When Hearts Ignite
I can’t fall for him, the rich, powerful man with an equally important last name. He’s everything I swore to myself I’d avoid because I’d rather commit myself to a nunnery before following in my mom’s footsteps.
My heart kicks harder against my rib cage in protest as anticipation zaps through me like electricity from a live wire.
Now, I’m standing at the front door of our office building at three fifty-five in the afternoon, watching tourists strolling by, toting colorful gift bags inscribed with “I love NY” on them.
The air is sticky today. Humid. The golden sun beats down on the ground, and the swirling heat traps the scents of street dogs emanating from food trucks or exhaust from cars speeding down the streets. I regret not wearing a short-sleeve shirt today and I roll up my sleeves to the best of my abilities, the sweat plastering to my back and my foot thuds a nervous rhythm on the ground.
The automatic glass doors slide open, a burst of air conditioning blowing from behind me, the sudden chill eliciting a shiver down my back. My favorite scent of the ocean and worn leather travels to my nose.
My heart twirls in my chest.
“You got me where you want me.” His deep, husky voice rakes down my body like a caress and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. “Even though it’s work hours, I’d consider this to be decidedly not work, so what plans do you have for me, friend?”
His tone is mocking in self-derision at the word “friend” and a sharp ache slices through my chest. He is correct. Whatever we have…it’s not really a true friendship. It is something different all together, a purgatory in between heaven and hell, our feet dancing on a tightrope where the smallest slip would have us plummeting to our deaths. It’s something infinitely more. Something I don’t want to identify or recognize.
And yet, my heart can’t take anything less. My mind seeks these passing interactions with him, these fleeting moments when he lets down his guard and shows me a version of him the world doesn’t see often.
My mom is addicted to love, and I wonder if I’m heading down the same path, but instead of love, I’m addicted to him. The way his smiles make my heart seize, and I want to keep doing whatever I have to do to keep that expression on his face. The way his words only make me crave more time with him to understand the inner workings of his mind. The way my body hungers for his nearness, his touch, even the smallest graze creates the greatest highs for me. The way he makes me feel—safe, respected, admired.
“Well, unlike you, I’m not a billionaire, so don’t expect to be wined and dined by me. But I’m a firm believer I can’t have my friend working to death on his birthday. He only turns…” I glance at him, waiting for his response, realizing I still don’t know a lot about him even though there are moments when I feel like I’m the only person who has seen the true him behind his masks, when I feel like I’m the only person who truly knows him.
“Twenty-nine.” His eyes are covered in dark sunglasses, but his lips curl up in a sexy grin. The freaking man looks like a model for luxury menswear and doesn’t seem at all impacted by the heat. Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“Yes…twenty-nine once. So, I propose enjoying the city on a poor girl’s…aka myself,” I point to my chest, “budget.”
“You know, I could just take us somewhere—”
I frown. “No. The birthday boy isn’t spending a dime. And I don’t need anyone spending money on me. I can very well have a fun day with my budget. Trust me.”
“I can’t wait,” he drawls, his head dipping down to stare at me. Damn it, I wish he would remove his shades so I could see his eyes. “Can I at least drive?”
“No. Your day is mine.”
“Who knew you were so bossy?” He scowls, but I hear the laughter in his voice.
“What, uncomfortable with relinquishing control?” I taunt back.
He steps closer, his alluring scent raising the stakes. “You have no idea. And I like my women bossy. All the more satisfying when they bend to my will later on.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but I can feel every word between my legs.
I fight an urge to clench my thighs. My blood heats and I rake in a breath, watching his corded throat ripple. His cologne surrounds me, and I can feel his bodily warmth seeping through the layers of the clothes, as if the distance between us is nonexistent.
“No one is your ‘woman,’” I mutter, turning away to face the street, hoping to hide the flush no doubt spreading like wildfire.
“No,” he murmurs softly. “You’re my friend.”
Friend. Yes, that’s what we are. If even that.
“Which is much more important than my woman,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, but my heart heard him loud and clear.
He’s staring away, refusing to look at me, but his words cloak me in a soothing warmth, which feels nothing like the sticky heat of the summer. I glance at him, noticing his tense jaw, his still as a statue bearing, his hands fisted by his sides. He’s struggling with something. I only wish he’d tell me.
I’d understand.
Taking pity on him, I pretend not to hear him, even though my heart is tunneling its way out of my chest.
“Come on, we’re going to grab an early dinner in Central Park and then watch a movie.” I beckon him to follow as I speed toward the nearest subway station, navigating the throngs of crowds no doubt headed toward the iconic bull statue a block over, drawing some much-needed distance away from him, hoping the physical exertion will dull the heated sensations flowing through my body.
“What are we going to eat?” His footsteps thump behind me, reassuring like my heartbeat.
