Dating You / Hating You
Page 46

“Fine,” I say.
She clearly didn’t expect this. “ ‘Fine’?”
I nod. “Yeah.” I take a couple of steps back so I’m leaning against a wall. I need air with her so close. “You are good at your job. We both are. From the start we agreed that wasn’t the problem. Brad set up this bullshit competition, and we played right into it. Little did I know what a sexist shit show it would become, and I hate it. I do.” I push off again, and move back to her. “But you’re pretending the fucked-up system of toxic masculinity is the reason you’re a dick to me, when really I think you just hate how things have changed between us.”
When she doesn’t respond, I lean in. “So here’s the thing, Evie: if we put our heads down, and do our jobs, and stay out of each other’s way, then we can just be colleagues.”
She gives me an aggressive shrug. “Okay? Sounds good to me.”
“Colleagues. That’s it,” I say, and her shoulders fall a little as she gets where I’m going with this. My heart is pounding so hard, I have to pull off my suit jacket so I don’t feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. Evie watches me take it off and drop it next to us, eyes rapt as she looks back to my face.
“Passing in the hallway, small talk, work emails. Whatever this is,” I say, waving between us, “would go away. You may not like the glitter explosion in your car, but at least you know I was thinking about you when I did it.” I pause, swallowing. “At least now you know I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I can’t believe I just said this. I can’t believe I didn’t really realize it before just now. Are we really this immature? Jesus Christ, I guess we are. With this admission, it feels like a tight cage around my chest has been unlocked, and I can let out a huge breath.
“Well,” I say quietly, “there’s my dramatic admission for the day.”
I expect her victorious Evil cackle, or even awkward, stunned silence. So I’m surprised when she moves up against me and slides her hand into my hair, pulling me down, down to her mouth.
I am immediately, completely on board. She pulls my lower lip into her mouth, sucking and nipping just hard enough to tap a mallet to the gunpowder of my blood. My hips press forward against hers, and the sound she makes in response dumps fuel everywhere.
I am on fire.
We don’t have time for this. She says it into my lips even as she stretches higher, pressing into me. Even when she reaches for my hand, urging me to touch her.
We don’t have time for this.
Her hand is like a clamp around my wrist, dragging it down over her breast, beneath her dress, up her leg. Against my mouth, her lips feel like a holy experience—eager in a way that tells me I’m not the only one who thinks about this all the fucking time.
My hand finds the lace of her underwear, sliding under, and her little gasp telegraphs her thoughts immediately: Touch me there, get me off, do it quickly.
I laugh in thrill, amazed at how easy she is to remember. The shape of her, the way she moves against my hand. Only the second time I’ve touched her, but here we are, snapping back into focus. Her hand slides down over the front of my pants—which have become their own kind of torture device—and she giggles into my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she says between shallow breaths.
I don’t care about my fucking suit. I don’t even care when her hand loses focus and slides back up my body, pulling my head against her. Her neck is warm and thrumming beneath my teeth. Half of me wants to bite her so she comes stumbling out of this room like a screaming sex telegraph, but the other half wants her to leave the room put back together—keeping this perfect little secret after she comes around my fingers with her hands digging into my shoulders and her mouth open in that quiet, soft cry.
After, I slow my touch but don’t pull away. Evie’s eyes are closed, her face tilted up to the ceiling. With my free arm around her, I’m practically holding her up, and this mighty force in my arms somehow feels so fragile.
But I like that about her. I like that when she’s on alert, every tiny bit of her packs a punch.
“We didn’t have time for this,” she whispers again.
“Oh well.”
She pulls her head up, looking at me with unfocused eyes, and grins. “Oh well.”
Evie makes to move back, and I untangle my hand from her underwear, letting her go. She looks at the buttons of her dress, straightening things, running fingers through her hair. With reluctance, I bend, picking up my jacket.
“Thanks,” she says, then bites her lip.
I laugh, and this breaks her grin free. “You’re welcome.”
What the fuck happens now?
She opens her mouth to speak, but a fist bangs on the door and I swear to God all four of our collective feet leave the ground with how much it terrifies us.
“Carter!”
I clasp a hand over my chest. It’s only Jonah, but I think I’ve just lost three years of my life.
I lean over, opening the door. Light from the hallway spills into the dim room and I squint over at him. “What?”
He takes quick stock of the scene before him. “We’re getting some green-screen shots before we move the set pieces into place.” With a little grin, he adds, “Thought you two might want to come out.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“You think I’m a fucking idiot?”
I stare at him wordlessly.
Jonah rolls his eyes and then looks past me to Evie. “You must be the maddening wo-man.”
“You must be the douchebag bro-ther.”
He smiles, delighted. “Carter’s love looks a lot like hate, doesn’t it?”
Evie unleashes her amazing cackle and I reach forward and smack him. “How did you know we were in here?”
Jonah turns, laughing, and heads back down the hall. He calls over his shoulder, “That’s where everyone goes in this studio to fuck.”
Chapter nineteen
evie
Monday-morning meetings are going to be an issue.
Carter is sitting across from me, bent head-to-head with Aimee over a spreadsheet. I’m only now taking the time to notice that his hair has gotten a little shaggy in front, but he’s kept it short on the sides and . . . well, I’m quite enjoying it. Today he’s wearing a light blue shirt, and I don’t know if it’s intentional, but the top two buttons are undone, showing a nice hint of his pecs. Unfortunately, now I can’t really blame him for the Evie Blouse Disaster of Late October, because there is no way I am telling him that I can see chest-below-collarbone for fear that he would remove it from my view. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and he’s doing that fascinating trick where he flips a pen over the back of his hand.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He made me come with those fingers.
Back and forth.
My chest twists a little as I realize how hard I’m swooning, and how far that will take me. Because who knows what is going on between us? We sure haven’t talked about what happened Friday.
After Jonah found us, we left the mixing room in silence. We walked down the hall and found that our presence was completely useless anyway: Jonah and the crew had the shoot under control, and we wrapped right on time.
After only a brief shared look of bewilderment, Carter went to his car, I went to mine, and we left separately. He didn’t call, I didn’t call, and we haven’t made eye contact again. But, thankfully, we haven’t melted back down into petty sabotage, either.