Surprise Me...

Only one more thing to do.

He straightened, splashed water on his face, washed his hands. Tried to tamp down his mess of wiry hair.

Okay.

Out of the men’s room, he walked back to his cubicle, one step at a time, adrenaline buzzing so loudly through his system he felt as if he were operating in a different dimension from the rest of the office.

When he rounded the corner, Melanie looked up in concern, saved her file and turned her chair to face him. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if this has upset you. You could have told me right out that you didn’t want me with your brother, you didn’t have to pretend—”

“Melanie.” He sat, scootched his chair close to hers, took her hand. He was just going to say it. “Last night. In bed. That wasn’t Stoner. That was me.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the punch line. He didn’t crack a smile.

The eyebrows sank slowly. “Edgar…don’t do that. It’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. It was me. It was dark, so you didn’t realize, and I thought…”

She took her hand away, eyes widening. Understanding dawned on her face, then rose and rose into full-blown horror. Not shock, not surprise, but horror. As if he’d just told her she’d slept with a person with active cases of every known STD. Or with her brother. Or with her dog.

He waited. Waited for the horror to change to surprise, for those wheels to start turning, for her to connect the man in front of her with the passion and tenderness, the wild erotic chemistry, the panting straining desperate need to join and climax, and for that surprise to soften her expression, to part her lips, Oh, Edgar, that was you!

None of that happened. She continued to stare as if she couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than lying naked with him.

Okay. He’d wait longer. She had to make the connection soon. Tick…tick…tick…

Still nothing.

He couldn’t bear it. Not one more ticking, torturous second of this pain or this humiliation, not one.

A forced laugh, as real as he could make it. “Gotcha.”

Her laughter wasn’t forced. It was loud and long and full of so much relief that his pain, which he’d been pretty sure was as bad as it could get, got worse.

“Oh, my God, Edgar. You really had me. Ha!” She put her hand to her chest. “Damn. That would have been really, really—”

He must have shown something in his face to stop her. Something. Because thank God she did stop, and looked confused and contrite.

“Horrible?”

“No, oh, no, Edgar. No. Of course not. It’s just that you and I…” She laughed again. Uncomfortable this time. He was glad. He wanted her to suffer, even just a little. “We’re not about…that.”

“Right.” She was wrong. She was so damn wrong, he wanted to jump up and bellow it, beat his chest and fling furniture around the office.

But that wasn’t him. He was sweet, gentle Edgar, who let the world walk all over him rather than trip people up to get what he wanted. Who adored this woman unreasonably and would do anything rather than make her unhappy.

So she’d go on being wrong, and he’d go on being her best friend, and she’d probably go on and try to screw Stoner again. And even when she did and the sex was bad compared to what they’d shared, even when she put two and two together as she writhed in bed with his brother and realized Edgar really had been in bed with her last night.

At least he wouldn’t be there to see that look of sick horror on her face ever, ever again.

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