Page 81 of Beauty and the Beach
“Does this not at all concern you?” I say when I see how relaxed he looks in his chair, his eyes still closed, his arms folded comfortably over his chest.
He shrugs. “My employees are long since gone home. You’re safe here with me. What else is there to worry about?”
You’re safe here with me.Can he hear himself?
And into my mind pops the tense look on his face as he examined my head this morning, the gentle ministrations of his hands.
I watch him for a while from my chair across from the flashlight; when he’s been still and silent for maybe fifteen minutes, I allow myself to stand up and move closer.
I just want to look at him; that’s all. I want to see him more clearly.
So I stand up and walk around his desk, hopping up to sit on the edge slightly to one side.
He lets out his breath when I seat myself. “Can I help you?” he says, keeping his eyes closed.
“Mmm,” I say, because I don’t have a good answer. I narrow my eyes as my thoughts swirl. “I don’t know.”
“Want to explain?”
“Not really,” I admit. How am I supposed to explain that I can’t tell if I have feelings for him? “It’s embarrassing. And”—I sigh, swinging my legs—“confusing.” I shake my head and tear my eyes away from him. “I’ll leave you alone. Sorry.”
“Just tell me,” he says, finally opening his eyes. When I hesitate, he goes on, “Come on. I won’t laugh.”
His gaze is pitch black in the darkened room, a vacuumthat threatens to suck me in. And as often seems to happen, the darkness seems to free my tongue.
“You said that we would like kissing,” I say hoarsely. “And that we would never want to stop.”
He nods slowly, his expression serious.
“Do you really believe that?” I say.
His throat bobs as he swallows, but he gives me just one word: “Yes.” He doesn’t look so relaxed now; his arms are still crossed, his head still resting on the back of the chair, but his whole body is radiating a tense, tight energy.
“Do you think we have feelings for each other?” I don’t know where these questions are coming from, but I don’t stop them. I’m not sure I can, any more than I can make myself breathe as I wait for his answer.
“I think…it’s possible,” he says.
I clear my throat. “Maybe we’re just attracted to each other.”
Another nod. “Undoubtedly,” he says, and I snort—a blissful snap of humor that I clutch with desperate hands.
“So modest.”
He shrugs as some of the tension drains out of his shoulders. “I know I’m handsome. And you…”
My breath catches as he studies me, his dark gaze sweeping from my head to my toes and then back again.
“You are very beautiful,” he finally says, the words reluctant.
The edge of the desk digs into the back of my thighs when I speak; I try to keep my voice normal and unaffected, but it doesn’t work. “I thought you said there was nothing appealing about me,” I say.
The corners of his lips twitch, and his eyes flutter closed again. “I lied.”
Butterflies. So many stupid butterflies taking flight in my stomach, all of them drunk and out past curfew.
When Phoenix sighs, his body relaxes further. “Why now for all the soul-searching, Amsterdam?” he says, shifting comfortably in his chair.
And I should change the topic. I should say something—anything—to steer this conversation into safer waters. But only one thought is going through my head right now, and I find the words escaping without my permission.
