Good, this is good. I’m working. I should try to be professional. Not to mention, maybe that’s why he’s talking to me in the first place. Maybe he wants me to get him a drink. Or point him in the direction of a restroom. Only why would he seekmeout instead of getting any number of servers to help? It’s not as if I’m particularly visible out here. I’m standing stuck to a tree, away from the main path.
“Right. Because tonight, you’re the help,” he says before moving his eyes up and down my body, taking in my uniform.
I don’t know how it happened but somehow, I’ve pointed to one of my other dreaded features yet again. Well, a uniform isn’t a feature, but still. I have a black pencil skirt on with a slit up the back and a white blouse with full sleeves and a black waistcoat over it. Oh, and let’s not forget the black tie and black Mary Janes. Classic waitress outfit. A far cry from all the elegant and sexy ballgowns everyone is wearing in there, like his girlfriend—his fiancée now—is wearing.
I rub my hands on my skirt and wish he’d look away soon. But instead, he takes his time. He runs his eyes over my waistcoat, down to my skirt. He takes in my bare knees and calves, before eyeing my shoes. It doesn’t matter that what I’m wearing is hideous and that he probably thinks the same thing, I still feel heated. I feel warm everywhere he touches me with his gaze. Probably because this is the first time he’s actuallylookingat me with such focus. He’s looking at me like I’m hisentirefocus. And I don’t know how to react to it other than going utterly breathless.
Also, dizzy.
God, I’m feeling dizzy. Even when he’s done and he comes back to my face, I feel like the world is still spinning. Especially when he drawls, “Nice uniform.”
“It’s—”
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”
My heart thuds. “Yourecognizeme?”
Shit.That didn’t sound so good. My voice was way too high pitched and suspicious. But I couldn’t help it. Like I can’t help itnow, running through years and years of places I followed him to where he may have seen me.
Oh God, this is a disaster, isn’t it? This could be very bad.
What if it was athis house, in his backyard or at his window? Holy fuck, how do I explain that? Ican’texplain that. So before I have to, I push off from the tree, ready to get away. “You know what, I have to go. I have to get back to work. It’s been?—”
But I don’t get to go anywhere. I hardly move away from the tree and take a step to leave when all of a sudden he’s in front of me. But more than that, his hand isonme. His fingers are wrapped around my bicep and somehow, I’m looking up at him and he’s staring down.
My first thought is I was right.
About a lot of things. First, our height difference. I’m hardly 5’ 4” and he’s a little over 6’ 2”. According to his stats on every sports website, he’s 190 cm. I always knew I’d barely reach his jaw, and now that we’re so close, I can see my head reaches the triangle of his throat and that’s it.
Second, I always knew he was beautiful. While that wasn’t the first thing that made me watch him or keep watching him over the years, I know how good looking he is. It’s not just his black hair with hidden dark brown strands that only come out in the sun. Or even his glittering eyes with the same peekaboo chocolate brown. It’s the fact that he has a lot of hidden treasures on his face.
Like, the first thing you notice about him is the bone structure. The high cheekbones, the sculpted jaw, the killer slant of it like a precarious mountain slope. So you miss the soft curve of his mouth, or the shape of his eyes. You miss that his eyelashes are so thick and spiky. Or that his nose is slightly bent, revealing that he probably broke it at some point in his life.
You are so blinded by the sharpness of his features that you miss the little details that are just as important. You think he’sso handsome, but when you discover all the hidden things about him, you realize he’s more than that.
He’s beautiful. My stepbrother.
“What…What are you doing?” I breathe out, looking up at him.
“Stopping you,” he says in a lowered voice, his face dipped.
“Stopping me from what?”
“From hurting yourself.”
“What?”
“There’s glass everywhere.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t want to step on it and hurt yourself while running away from me.”
“I wasn’t running away from you,” I lie.
His fingers flex around my arm and something flickers through his features. “You do.”
“I do what?”
