See, this was what happened when everyone got hysterical over her business. Twice on the way to the El station, Gretch spied a tall, handsome blond who looked exactly like Brandon. Both times it turned out to not be him, but by the time she pushed aboard the train in front of Sean, her stomach was a tight vise of nausea. Fuck Brandon. She knew how to stick up for herself, and she was done cowering. She’d have turned her phone back on as a symbol of her bravado, but the mash of commuters made moving impossible. In fact, the only space left was pressed tightly against the front of Sean.

Their glued bodies swayed to the rhythmic push-pull of the train. His book bag was wedged between his slightly spread legs. Their proximity meant it was between hers, too.

Her heels brought her nearly to his height, but she focused on his freshly shaved, sharp chin, instead of those brooding eyes. His clasp on the bar positioned his right bicep a millimeter from her boob. With each sway, the lemony-fresh laundry scent of his shirt enveloped her.

She stood rigid with tension, unable to ignore the hardness of him. All down his front. A part of her was disappointed; he’d always seemed above the average male’s pervasive lust, what with the classical literature, his finesse at work…the music that had brought her to tears yesterday.

The other part of her reveled in her seductive power. He may have control over those emotionless expressions, but he couldn’t hide this. And as long as she stayed in control of a guy, everything was fine. What would it be like with Sean?

The train lurched, throwing the standing commuters off balance, and Sean’s free arm snatched her about the waist, steadying her. The embrace fused their pelvises tighter. She froze at the exact instant his jaw clamped in horrified acknowledgement, and they careened apart like two opposing magnets. Gretch apologized over her shoulder to whomever she’d body-slammed, and bit her lip. Seconds later the train screeched to a rapid halt, and with a whoosh, the doors opened. Masses shuffled and bumped past them.

“Oh shit,” Sean breathed, squinting over her shoulder. She struggled to turn, but he clasped her again. “Don’t!”

The doors hissed closed, and the abrupt acceleration pitched her into him. His steely embrace didn’t drop. Exhilaration and claustrophobia warred within her. Unless she initiated it, being clutched this tightly by men—unable to move—made her want to shriek. And yet this was Sean. Harmless, oddball Sean, whose arms she once in a while fantasized being wrapped in. Here was her wish. Relax already!

He lowered his forehead so their noses almost touched. His lips were right there. She sucked in a breath. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding behind your spiky hair.”

See, the problem with Sean was: you never knew whether he had this incredibly dry sense of humor or he just thoughtlessly insulted others. His grip tightened, and, as she was still distracted by the meaning of his comment, her muscles subtly relaxed against his.

“One-two-three, go,” he muttered.

“What?”

With fluid grace, he executed a tight twirl around the book bag, so his back was to the commuters he’d just faced. Her heart skipped a beat. The authoritative manner, the elegance of the move—it was right out of her childhood daydreams, before life went so horribly wrong. She’d pretend to be a princess in a red ball gown being swept into a swirling waltz. Once in a very rare while, that fantasy still came to her in dreams—spinning giddily in the arms of a man whose touch didn’t repulse her. The sophisticated man had no face. He wore a tux and was really, really good, like the male dancers on that reality TV show. But this was Sean. Half nerd, half hermit. If he was adept at ballroom dancing, she’d die of laughter. Or swoon.

She found herself relaxing fully, the bulge pressing her pelvis not as unpleasant as men’s erections usually were. The train rocked them to and fro. In her head, she swayed and twirled in her satin gown, and finally found the courage to glance into Sean’s espresso eyes. They weren’t on her. He didn’t even seem aware of her or their erotic locomotive body rhythm. Instead, he studied the blocks they rocketed past, his usually tilted eyebrows knotted, his jaw taut.

“Sean?”

“We’re getting off at the next stop.”

She snapped out of her girlie crush. “Maybe you are, but I’m not walking the rest of the way in these heels.”

He turned from the window and stared at her in that fathomless way, like he was strip-searching her mind. Ordinarily it was incredibly annoying, but this time she felt paralyzed by his gaze—the slow way his dusky black lashes lowered, the steel band of his embrace…

“I don’t need your protection, Sean,” she said curtly, but her breathy voice ruined it. “I’m just humoring Hannah. For today only.”

The brakes squealed as they approached the next station, and lurching momentum plastered them tighter. His hypnotic eyes darkened, focusing on her mouth. Christ in a cradle, he’s going to kiss me! Her pulse stampeded, and her lips parted on instinct.

He pressed his mouth gently to hers, the kiss achingly slow and measured. His lips were warm, the pressure light, like he was giving of himself instead of taking from her. He tasted of coffee and cinnamon and something pleasantly male.

The train jolted to a stop, and their lips bumped apart with a clumsy smacking sound. He raised his head, his face mirroring her bewilderment. The doors hissed open. He formed a syllable, no doubt to say sorry—it had been a mistake. She didn’t want to hear anything out of that mouth. It would ruin the perfection of his kiss.

“I thought you wanted to get off,” she snapped, nudging his book bag with her toe. “Let’s go.”

As they cut through the mass of bodies, she was pretty sure he muttered, “When do you ever do what I want?” She glared at him, but he was looking over his shoulder.

Gretch descended onto the platform and spun around, primed to rip into him and demand an Uber. Again his focus was elsewhere, his face pale. She followed his gaze. Amid the noise of the crowd hurrying around them, a bearded man with heavy eyebrows waved from an adjacent door as he stepped down too. “Mr. Bixby!” He appeared to be looking at Sean, and Sean seemed to think so too.

“He’s not talking to you, hon,” she said in a voice reserved for five-year-olds. She linked arms and pulled. “I’ll pay for an—”

“I thought that was you,” the man said, hurrying over. “Although I confess a bit of surprise…” He gazed at Gretch, and let the sentence hang. What the hell? By the dread on Sean’s face, he was unmistakably in trouble. Because of the kiss? Because Sean was linking arms with her? Was it any of this man’s business?

Sean cleared his throat and gestured to her. “This is—”

“His wife,” Gretch blurted indignantly. The man’s mouth dropped open.

“No,” Sean spat out. “She’s not.” He unhooked his arm like he was shaking her off.

She stood breathless from the sting to her heart. The commuter noise around her faded to a dull hum as she blinked at Sean. The least cruel man she’d ever met. He ignored her as he shook the man’s hand.

“Did you get my email?” the man asked, scrutinizing Sean’s face intently from under those bushy brows.

“I…uh…I haven’t had a chance to respond.”

“Then it was fortuitous we met here.” The man spread his arm to encompass the platform. “The gentleman I wanted you to meet is just down the block.”

“I can’t.” Sean glanced around wildly. He swept a hand through his chronically messy hair. “I have an appointment,” he said. “Maybe another time, Mr. El Bashtan.”

“We’re perfectly free,” Gretch said through her teeth. Sean’s slanted brows added to the helplessness and horror he threw her way. What was he involved in that made him this squirrely? She gave him her infamous death glare before smiling over at El Bashtan. “May I come too?”

“No!”

Fucking Sean! Gretch ignored him as she oozed as much sexual innuendo into her smile as possible. “I won’t be any trouble,” she purred to El Bashtan. It took so little to sway men. She could do this. Screw Sean for having this side life he was so obviously trying to hide. She’d finally figure him out. She increased the wattage and squeezed the bearded man’s forearm, recognizing the second he faltered. Her ego swelled in triumph.

“As you wish, miss.”

“Missus,” she said, with a withering side-glance at her coworker. She fluttered her hand. “Please lead the way, Mr. El Bashtan.”