“Ophelia?” He doesn’t touch me—he’s keeping both hands on the wheel as he negotiates the treacherous road—but I can tell he wants to. Not because he wants to fuck me, as he so eloquently put it earlier. But because he wants to reassure me. Wants to make me feel secure.
“I’m good, Z. It just startled me, that’s all.”
“You sure?” He sounds tentative, like he doesn’t believe me but doesn’t want to risk upsetting me any more than I already am.
“Yeah. It’s no big deal. It’s not like anything happened, right?”
“Right.”
He relaxes a little and I turn to look out the window. I recognize this stretch of road, know we’re only a couple of miles from the employee housing where I’m currently staying. Which is good. In my opinion, we can’t get there fast enough.
The next few minutes pass in silence of the uncomfortable variety. When we get to the turnoff, I start to tell Z—it’s kind of hard to see, even during the day—but he seems to know exactly where it is.
Of course he does. He’s probably fucked every female who lives in the place. God only knows how many times he’s made this turn in the middle of the night.
When we pull up to the curb in front of the building, I all but leap out of the car. I start to call over my shoulder, “Thanks for the ride,” but Z turns off the SUV before I can even open my mouth.
Then he’s walking around the front of the car and reaching for my elbow. I’m so shocked that I let him grab hold, and then he’s walking me up the sidewalk to the building’s front door, making sure that I don’t slip on the ice that’s accumulated.
Again his concern gets to me. Again I slap it back, spackling the cracks in my armor almost as soon as they appear. I’m not doing this. I am not letting anyone in, and certainly not Z.
He waits with me while I fumble for my keys and unlock the front door. As soon as I’ve got it open, I turn to him with a smile I’m far from feeling and say, “Thanks for the ride. I appreciate it.”
“Where’s your room?” he asks, looking down the hallway.
“I’m on the third floor.” I gesture to the staircase, start to step back from the door so that it will close.
His hand shoots out, stops the door from slamming in his face. “I’ll walk you up.”
“Z—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Once tourist season starts, there are all kinds of creeps around here. Let me walk you to your door, make sure you get inside safely, and then I’ll leave. I swear.”
He looks sincere, which only affects me more. The self-protective part of my brain is screaming at me to kick him out as soon as possible, to get him out of the building and my life. But, somehow, I find myself nodding and letting him walk me up the two flights of stairs to my room.
“I’m right here,” I say, stopping two doors into the hallway.
Z frowns. “I don’t like that you’re so close to the stairwell. It doesn’t seem safe.”
“Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing it’s none of your business, isn’t it?”
“Wow. A little prickly there, aren’t you?”
“You haven’t even seen me get prickly yet.”
“Hmm. That’s a real concern, considering you ruined a five-hundred-dollar pair of snowboarding pants yesterday when you weren’t being prickly.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. His pants cost five hundred dollars? And he’s wearing another pair today? Jesus, two days’ worth of clothes for him would pretty much pay for my whole damn wardrobe. It boggles the mind.
“Are they really ruined?” I ask, sick to my stomach. Since room and board is included in this job, five hundred dollars is close to two weeks’ salary for me. If I have to pay him back, I need to start saving now—
My alarm must show on my face, because he laughs. “They’re fine, Ophelia. I was just messing with you.”
Relief sweeps through me. “Thank God. I had visions of going bankrupt trying to replace them.”
“I’d never make you do that. It was my own fault anyway.”
My brows shoot up. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you admit that.”
“I may be an asshole, but I’m not a total douche,” he tells me. “At least not normally. I know when I fuck up.”
I’m not touching that admission with a ten-foot pole. Not when it makes him seem so … human.
“On that note, thanks for the ride.” I all but push him toward the stairs. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
“You could give me your number. That way you’ll be sure to see me around.”
For long seconds his words don’t compute. “You want my number?” Z never gets a girl’s number. He usually meets her, takes her out, bags her, and then goes on his way. Or at least that’s what everyone says about him. And it’s certainly the vibe I got off him that first night.
“Yeah?” For the first time he sounds uncertain, like he’s totally unfamiliar with this routine. “That way I can call you. See if you want to go to dinner sometime, or maybe to see another movie.”
Another crack appears in my shell, and I know it’s the uncertainty I’m responding to instead of the request for a second date. There’s just something about seeing the totally self-assured Z look a little lost that gets to me in a big way. In a bad way.
“I, uh, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean—”
“You don’t want me to call you?” He sounds incredulous.
I don’t, no. For so many reasons that I don’t want to get into. “It’s not that simple.”
“Sure, it is. You give me your number. I call. We go hang out, have a good time. See where it goes.”
“Why are you pushing this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Why are you so determined to get my number? There are hundreds of girls at the resort who would lie down buck naked in the snow for a chance to go out with you. Why are you here trying to convince me?”
He looks uncomfortable, and suddenly I remember what Cam told me. The bet. Of course. This is all about the bet he made to sleep with me.
On one hand, the knowledge reassures me. On the other, it scares me to death. Because I’ve been around him one night—one night—and already he’s getting to me. I don’t know how that’s possible, but it is.
What am I going to do if he keeps popping up, trying to endear himself to me? Even if it isn’t serious, even if it’s all about that stupid bet, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to resist him. Not the sex, because that’s the most unimportant part of the whole equation. But the vulnerability I see in him when he doesn’t think anyone is watching. The pain that connects so easily with my own.
“Maybe I like you,” he says.
Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. Or, more accurately, I’m afraid that if I give him half a chance, he can make me like him. And I’m just not ready for that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Good night, Z.” I take another step into my room, start to close the door.
Once again, he catches it—this time by wedging his foot against it. “Fine. If you won’t give me your number, at least take mine. Or tell me what time you’re working tomorrow. I’ll show up. We’ll talk. I’ll even let you dump coffee on me again.”
“I don’t want to dump coffee on you again.”
“Maybe not now. But give me ten minutes. I’m sure I’ll say something that pisses you off again.”
The funny thing is, he probably will. But even that’s a problem, because if I’m angry, then I’m feeling something. And once I open that door, who knows what else will leak through. Look where I am already, just twenty-four hours after meeting Z.