I’m a jackass.
I rush back to the landing above and stand behind her, looping an arm around her waist. She jerks against my hold, but I don’t let go.
“Hey.” I expel a long breath, stirring the curls arrowing wildly into my face.
“I’m sorry.”
She whirls around to face me, shaking my arm from her waist.
“For what? Acting like we don’t know each other?” Anger snaps in her voice, but I hear the hurt. I put it there. “I don’t think we’ve fucked yet, so it’s a little odd that you’re already treating me like yesterday’s trash.”
“I was abrupt. It’s my fault, not yours.”
“Oh, I know that,” she says, her words as hot as the summer outside these air-conditioned walls. “But it’s okay. You do you and I’ll do me. Is that simple enough for you, friend?”
“Can I please explain?”
“No.” She grabs the cloth and marches toward the next landing of stairs.
I take the bolt from under her arm and toss it against the wall. Grasping her wrist gently, conscious of the fine bones in my big hands, I lean against the wall and pull her to stand between my legs.
“I’m sorry.” I push a clump of curls back, exposing the gold studs running along the whorl of her ear. “May I please explain that I’m a dumbass?”
She stills, but doesn’t pull away.
“I didn’t have to come to the office today,” I admit, my voice quiet in the privacy of the stairwell.
She flicks a look up at me from under her lashes, curious and cautious.
“JP mentioned prototypes of the watches, and I offered to come see them in person.” I laugh at myself and shake my head. “I jumped at the chance to see you.”
She fixes her stare on the ground between our feet. Her shoulders, held tight and high, slowly drop. She’s listening. She’s hearing me.
“Go on,” she says, full lips pinching at the corners. “Dumbass.”
Her spirit, her boldness, makes me smile. I don’t like seeing her hurt, especially by me. If we don’t have this conversation, these same doubts will resurface, and I’ll inevitably hurt her again. She won’t even know why. She deserves to know why.
“Tell me what you know about me, Lotus.”
Both of her thick brows stretch up, and she blinks a few times.
“I know you’re the center for the San Diego Waves,” she says, her voice slightly uncertain.
“Power forward,” I correct.
“Huh?” She tosses up a confused glance.
“You said I’m the center for the Waves, but I’m the power forward.”
“Oh.” She shrugs like it’s all the same to her . . . which it probably is. “And I know you have the musical taste of a sixty-year-old man.”
I laugh and fake a glare. “That’s actually not too far off,” I tell her, stroking the silky skin of her wrist. “My father loved jazz, and he passed that on to me.”
“Is he a basketball player, too?”
“No.” I shake my head and let out a harsh laugh. “He was a judge and wanted me to follow in his footsteps. He was disappointed when I was drafted.”
“No way. Most fathers would be proud.”