Restoring Jordan by Elizabeth Finn Read Free Book Online

your behalf.” And with a very literal tongue in cheek, he shakes his head before continuing. “I’m being rude. Welcome to Foster’s, Adeline.” He’s not just being rude; he’s being a sarcastic dick. “Regardless of what a pain in the ass you’ll be, it will be a good experience for you.”
    He’s an asshole—a very nice-looking asshole, and this conversation has just taken a nosedive. “I’m top of my class, and I’m smart. I don’t need to be babysat by arrogant architects and bitchy designers!” What was supposed to belie confidence ends up showing my resentment instead, but my blood is boiling at his words, and I’m failing to restrain my feelings in any way. He’s a jerk, and he doesn’t know me at all, but my pathetic, juvenile words have failed to sink in as he continues, his irritation starting to show.
    “Your intelligence remains to be seen, and you may someday be a great designer, but right now, you’re green, darlin’—supergreen. Don’t let your arrogance trip you up. If you want to learn, I suggest you pay attention and grow a thicker skin than you obviously have at the moment. Grow up and stop acting like a wounded puppy.”
    At that, he waives the waiter to our table and drops a credit card on the check. He’s pissed, but frankly, so am I. Not for the first time today, I wonder why I should care what he thinks. He’s no one to me. We had sex, and it was quite clear his interest was in nothing more than my body for one night. This is not a man who deserves my concern or care. Who the hell am I kidding? I’m no victim of his whoring. I asked for it, and I got it. But I feel victimized; I’m hurt. There’s no sense to it, and yet the pain is rejection. This realization is unwelcome; it means I’m exactly the same as every other pathetic woman so intent in believing my life is somehow attached to a man—as though his approval should mean anything to me. But it does, and with a swift and overpowering surge of emotion, I decide I’m going to prove him wrong, and I’m going to make him eat his bullshit words.
    He stands swiftly to leave, and I fall behind his steps. He’s walking with a brisk pace, his irritation showing in his every swift footfall, and as we near his car he approaches my door. Rather than opening it for me, he pushes me gently but firmly against the door with a strong hand to my hip. His touch is possessive, his eyes are on fire, and I’m certain his harsh irritation has finally cracked. He’s going to touch me, and in all of my irritation and hurt, I want him to. I want him to soothe the pain he’s caused me. I want his hands on my skin and to push away his painful words with them. And as he slips his hand past the lapel of my jacket to my breast, my breath catches audibly, and I stop breathing. And with one final look to my eyes, he destroys me.
    There’s a ripping sound, but it’s many long, confusing moments before I can figure out why his intimate touch my body is so craving sounds more like ripping fabric than the gentle kneading of my breast through my shirt, but as he dangles the long, clear, sticky clothing label, announcing I’m a size S in front of my face, I die. He continues to appraise my eyes as I stare at the sticker he now holds in front of me, and with one swift move, he pulls my hand to his, places the sticker in my palm and moves to the driver’s door without a second glance to me. I quickly wad the sticker in my hand and fumble for the door latch. Humiliation is washing over me in tsunami-size waves. I don’t want to be in the car with him, and the irrational childish part of my brain pleads with me to run, but it’s not an option. And sinking into the seat next to him, I look out the window, praying I can restrain the embarrassment and the tears pricking at my eyes in humiliation.
    *
    I’m not prone to getting pissed off easily, but she managed it in less than thirty seconds. Quite frankly, most people don’t challenge me so openly