Found in Us (Lost 2)

I shriek, jumping away from Parker, as someone collides with us and spills a drink with ice cubes right on my chest.

"I am so sorry," a woman in her mid-thirties, holding an almost empty glass says, eyeing my dress in horror. One glance at my white dress and I realize why. Her drink had some kind of red fruit blended in it, which pretty much means I can kiss this dress goodbye.

"Okay, I need to clean this mess," I say in what I hope is a measured tone. As I swirl on my heels in the direction of the door, I catch Parker trying to stifle a laugh.

The bathroom is one hell of a twisted corridor away from the bar. If it weren't for the fluorescent signs marking the way to it, I doubt I'd find it at all. I curse all the way, but as I waste tissue after tissue in front of one of the sleek sinks, I think maybe a cold shower is exactly what I need. Things with Parker were getting . . . I don't know what, but they were getting. . .something. I shake my head. No, I thought that once before, and then, despite sizzling chemistry floating in the air, Parker made it painfully clear there was nothing between us. On a night very different from this one, Parker did one of the most insulting things you can do to a woman—or at least to me—he brushed me off. Plain and simple, he rejected me.

Why he did it, I never found out. Not that it matters. All that matters is that I continue to do exactly what I've been doing until now: stay away from him. I need to focus on my new life here. Somehow, guys have always messed up things for me. Because I allowed them to mess things up, I remind myself. Starting with my dad, down to every single asshole I've dated. Not anymore. I take a deep breath, smiling in the mirror. I spend the next minutes fiddling with some tissues, trying to clean off the stain, then give up, pushing my chest forward instead. I can't hide the damn stain. I can use it to my advantage. And some advantage it gives me. A neon sign couldn't attract more attention to my cleavage, and I don't need this kind of attention right now. I decide to use the dress as an excuse to leave early. To my dismay, Parker is leaning against the wall farther down the corridor, one or two turns away from the entrance to the bar. His eyes rest on the stain on my dress for a few seconds and my cheeks flare up instantly. I'm sure he can see the redness in them even in the dim light.

"I have to go," I say. "My dress is soaked."

"I'll drive you home," he says, walking toward me.

"No, you just got here. I'm sure you and Dani have lots to talk about." I actually take a step back, only to hit the wall behind me.

"I'd just drop you off and return. Are you afraid of being alone with me, Jessica?"

"No . . . it's just not necessary. I can take a cab."

"What are you afraid of?" he insists, stepping right in front of me. "That I'll try to seduce you and take you to bed? Do I really strike you like that kind of guy?"

In my experience, men who don't look even half as godlike as he does are after one thing only. But his rejection all those months ago proves he isn't one of them. And nothing I've seen or heard about him indicated he’s a womanizer. But being so close to him makes it impossible to think rationally.

I push him away, but with one swing, he grabs both my hands and pins them against the wall above me. His lips are inches away from mine, the fingers of his free hand tracing the contour of my lips, leaving a trail of fire behind them. He's so close to me that I can feel every single hot breath against my lips. He locks eyes with me, and it's the sight of his blue eyes boring into mine—more than his proximity and his touch—that sets me on fire, causing an almost unbearable pressure between my thighs.

He trails his fingers from my lips down to my chin and then slowly over my neck. I bite my lip when he presses gently with his thumb on the hollow of my neck, then proceeds with his torture farther down. His fingers peruse the hem of my neckline, at the exact point where the soaked fabric of the dress meets my skin, then slip under the fabric. Just a fraction of an inch.

Not enough to actually touch my breast.

But more than enough to send me over the edge. He’s going to kiss me.

The corners of his lips lift in a delicious smile as he removes his hand from my neckline, letting it fall by his side. His eyes never leave mine. I wait, sucking in my breath, for him to lean forward and kiss me. After what feels like hours, he finally leans forward and kisses me.

On my goddamn forehead.

He walks me out of the club in silence. While he hails me a cab, I run my hands up and down. The wet spot clings to my skin, making me shiver despite the warm end of July evening. Once a car pulls over, I climb in quickly, waving at him. When I arrive at the apartment I share with Dani, I get rid of the wet dress, then slip under the covers. I’m playing with my phone, looking at cat pictures on Instagram, when a message from Parker pops up.

Parker: Made it home alright?

I like that he’s checking in with me.

Jess: Yes.

Parker: Don’t be a stranger.

Jess: Please elaborate.

I hover with my fingers above the screen before pressing send, then add a smiley face.

Parker: You’re still upset about what happened ba

ck in the States, aren’t you?

Well, yep. I don’t know what to write back, so I just stare at the screen, until another message pops up.

Parker: It wasn’t your fault. It’s all on me. Trust me, it’s better this way.

Right...this isn’t making me feel better.