Page 15 of Too Hostile

No such luck. “Would it really kill you to have a cup of coffee with me?” The way he says it doesn’t sound innocent at all, and the way he’s looking at me tells me he doesn’t mean for it to.

“Yes. I think it might. You’re not great for my blood pressure.”

He throws his head back and laughs at that. It’s a genuine, real laugh. A light melody my ears don’t seem to hate as much as I’d like them to. Damn ears. I mean, this kid drives me crazy. His laugh should too. But it’s a truly beautiful sound. And when his eyes meet mine, the laughter still dancing in them, I’m tempted to agree, but then something shifts.

It happens so fast, I nearly miss what he’s reacting to.

But I vaguely recognize the sound of a small child throwing a tantrum, along with the rough, almost condescending voice of a parent, either at their wits end or who just never had it under control in the first place—I can’t speculate which.

But it doesn’t seem to matter to Fletcher either way. As the parent shouts at the child and makes the kid cry more, Fletcher has gone nearly catatonic.

His big body is frozen, except for rapid breaths racking his form, and his eyes are a desert of emotion. “Fletcher,” I say firmly, but he doesn’t see me.

It’s like he doesn’t see anyone.

What the hell is going on?

The child and the parent head out of the coffee shop. The child has stopped crying and may have gotten their way because it seems awfully content as the frazzled parent follows behind. But Fletcher hasn’t moved.

“Fletcher,” I try again, but he’s just stuck.

Damn it. I move closer to him, my coffee in one hand but using the other hand to cup his cheek gently.

“Fletcher,” I breathe out, suddenly terrified for him. I don’t like it, but I really don’t have time to worry about that. “Fletcher, look at me.” My thumb grazes gently under his eye.

Finally, he slowly comes back, his eyes meeting mine, but he’s still in a daze when he opens his mouth to speak. “You’re touching me.”

“What?” I breathe out as I stare into his startling blue eyes and barely register his words.

I see a hint of playfulness come back to his eyes, and a small smile forms on his full lips. “You’re touching me.”

It finally clicks, and I quickly drop my hand away from his face. “Oh shit. Sorry.”

I’m flustered, which I really, really hate, but it doesn’t bother Fletcher. No, he seems to be right back to himself now, his grin growing wide. “Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” His tone is light and playful, and he actually winks at me, all that mischief flooding right back. “I just said you were touching me.”

I huff and take a step back from him. “What was that all about?” I ask, my eyes searching his as I wait for his answer.

An answer I know isn’t coming as soon as I see the way his smile has transformed. It’s not playful. He’s not flirting. No. He’s putting on a show. He’s got a big fake, plastic smile on his all too handsome face. “Nothing.”

I need to just go. This man is beyond infuriating, and I don’t have the time or patience for him. “Fletcher...” I start, needing the answer and not knowing why. “What happened? You were frozen.”

“I’m fine,” he says, that enraging smile firmly on his face.

“You can tell me,” I say and mentally kick myself. That is so not the way to get him out of my life and mind. By letting him know I’m here for him. That he can talk to me.

I don’t want to see more in him. I want him to be this rich, spoiled brat who doesn’t have a care in the world. But that look on his face. The way he couldn’t seem to move. He looked so damn lost in that moment.

How many times did I look that way over the years?

“It was nothing. Don’t worry, Professor...” He leans into me just so slightly, his eyes boring into mine. “I’m just a simple rich boy. It doesn’t go deeper than that.”

I glare at him, wanting that to be true. “Yeah well, things aren’t always what they seem.”

He smirks at that, his eyes flashing with something I can’t quite pin down, and he shrugs his large shoulders. “You have me all figured out, Professor. Don’t worry.” He looks up toward the coffee counter and then back at me. “Sorry, I actually don’t feel like chatting today. Or coffee. I think I’ll just head out.”

Before I can argue with him or ask him again about what happened, he ducks out of the coffee shop and starts jogging down the street, like it was his plan all along. But my mind is stuck on that haunted look on his face.

What the hell was that all about?