Free Captivated (Stranded) by Mia West Page B

stood stunned as she bent to scoop up the sheet, then one of his blankets.
    “I’m going to sleep downstairs.”
    “No, I will.”
    She held up her hands. “Please. I’m going to the archive. Don’t follow me.”
    “Laine. How can I make this right?”
    “Go back a month and say hi instead?” She shook her head, helpless. “I’m feeling a lot of scary shit right now—no, stay there. I want to be alone, okay?”
    He felt as if two big fists were wringing him out. He bent and picked up the second blanket, handed it to her. “It’s cold down there,” he said, hating himself. He’d scared her, and he was giving her a blanket? Useless.
    “Evan.” She looked like she might cry, but turned away before he could respond. A few seconds later the apartment door clicked shut behind her, and then he was alone.
    Fuck.
     

Chapter 10
     
    Laine lay on the floor, surrounded by Evan. His scent, stronger in these bedclothes than hers, wrapped her up. When it got to be too much, she threw them off, only to grow chilled and have to pull them back over her. She even tried breathing through her mouth to avoid him but gave up with a sigh. He wasn’t just in the sheets. He was all around her, in the keeping of this place.
    This place she had thought was safe.
    Oh don’t be so fucking dramatic, she told herself. He hadn’t locked her in, and hadn’t known it was going to happen. She knew that. She knew him well enough to feel sure of it.
    But that collage. It had come as a shock.
    Actually, that wasn’t quite right either, if she was completely honest with herself (and who else did she have to be honest with, shutting herself in the basement). At first, it had seemed only a jumble of colors. A nice jumble, well-coordinated, but with no shapes putting themselves forward for her eye to discern. But then she’d unfocused her gaze a bit and seen a woman in quarter profile.
    And it had been beautiful. His lines, his color choices, even the angle of the subject, had filled her with a wonder she only felt when she saw a piece that truly resonated with her.
    But then she had made out the glasses. Her glasses.
    And then what?
    Then…if she was being completely, totally honest…she had felt amazed, in a good way. In the best way—in the way of someone who has been given a thoughtful birthday gift by a person who doesn’t give gifts.
    But then something dark had crept into her mind and soured the good feelings. Its hidden location. Its placement across from his bed. Yes, a bed he’d made to accommodate her presence, but he’d said he slept on the floor a lot, hadn’t he? And it had been too easy to imagine him sitting there, staring at her face for hours, beating off.
    God, don’t flatter yourself. Hours?
    Fine, not hours. But more than once, he’d said so.
    But how many times had she dragged his figment into a bathroom stall with her? Or not even into a stall because she couldn’t wait to sprawl on the tile and rub one out with him behind her eyelids?
    And she had admitted as much to him.
    He had been flattered.
    Was she wrong to feel anything other than flattered as well?
    She had been pure fantasy to him, even more than he had been to her, because she would have spoken to him given half a chance. He, on the other hand, had been protecting her from himself. And yes, protecting himself from possible rejection. But he’d had even less intention of initiating anything with her than she’d had toward him. He’d kept his infatuation to himself with no idea that anything might ever come of it but a soggy tissue.
    And the look on his face when he found her on his doorstep. Now that she knew his face better, she knew that expression had fallen somewhere between panic and terror.
    Okay, terror was a bit dramatic, too, but he had not expected to come face to face with her, that much had been obvious, and when face to face for him was often a deal breaker.
    A heart breaker.
    She stared at the ceiling and brought the blankets to her