After You

chapter twenty

Fuck my life. Fuck it all to hell.

My first instinct is to walk straight back out, but the doors close before I even get the chance. My mind screams at the universe for always finding a way to get us stuck together. Like, what have I done to deserve this? Why do I have to suffer the company of someone I don't like?

I take a step back so that I'm in the back corner, so that Kyle stands to my right. I don't say anything, electing to pretend that I didn't see him or that I don't recognise him. Either or is fine with me, as long as I don't have to talk to him. As long as I don't have to acknowledge him.

But of course he acknowledges me. As the doors close and the lift starts its descent, he turns to look at me. I refuse to do the same, and watch him from my peripheral vision. He is dressed sharply in a charcoal, three piece suit, and his dark hair to his three day old stubble is immaculate.

"I got your message," he says simply.

"Good for you," I say without thought.

"Who was it that spoke to you?" he asks. "Was it Dean? Colin?"

"No one, actually," I say. Now I do look at him, twisting my body so that I face him. "I just don't like you."

"Well, we both know that's a lie," Kyle says. He opens his mouth to say something further, but I cut him off.

"Let me stop you right there," I say. "If you're going to tell me that I'm 'just like every other girl' or I'm 'different to everybody else', you can save your breath. I'm not interested."

Kyle doesn't say anything for a time, and I swear I can see the cogs of his brain moving as he tries to work through this new and unfamiliar conundrum. I don't suppose many women turn him down because of his looks or money. He's probably never had someone outright reject him.

"Let me take you out," he says finally.

"Like on a date or by sniper rifle?" I counter. "Because I would prefer the latter."

The lift comes to a stop, and the doors ping as they open to the ground floor of the building. I step out, and unfortunately, Kyle follows; he changes his gait so that he can remain in step with me. He keeps up no matter which way I go, whoever I sidestep, whoever I manoeuvre my way around to get outside.

The entrance to the building is always busy with people coming and going, and I hope to lose Kyle at the turnstiles; but nope, there he is, easily keeping up with me as I make it to the busy street beyond, into the harsh sunlight that almost instantly makes my eyes water.

"I would like to take you out on a proper date," Kyle says, and as the words leave his lips, I feel his hand on my arm and he spins me around to face him.

We stand in the middle of the sidewalk, causing the people around us to dodge and weave. It's almost like we're permanent fixtures, because even without looking up from their phones people simply walk or brush past us.

I pull my arm free from Kyle's grasp. "No," I say. "No, I'm not interested."

Again, I get the impression that he rarely ever gets turned down for anything. That's probably why he can't take no for an answer.

"Just once," he says. "Then you'll never have to hear from me or see me again."

Looking at him now, I just find it hard to believe that he would be interested in me in any capacity. We're not even in the same league, and I doubt we would share any interests. He's made of money, has all the time in the world, is – well, he looks – sophisticated, and if I didn't know any better, he's probably Christian Grey's long lost brother or something. Judging by what I know of him. I probably should've googled him after I spoke with Dylan.

"Why?" I ask him now. His expression gives nothing away, but I still search for something – anything. "Don't have enough women throwing themselves at you?"

Kyle rolls his blue eyes. "Why does it matter?" he counters. "I want to take you out. No strings attached." Then he says, almost as an afterthought, "It'd be every girl's dream."

"No," I repeat, starting to sound like a robot who is only programmed to say 'No'. "That's why I left that message with your receptionist. If I was interested in you, I would've texted you or at least seen you in person. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lunch."

But going to lunch ends up being the worst possible option. The next few moments happen in a blur and whirl of colour, of passing cars and people; as I step out onto the road in time with the green light, someone doesn't hit their brakes quick enough. The car's tyres screech as they try to come to a stop, as they try to get enough traction.

My instincts tell me to move out of the way, to jump back between the parked cars that line the street – but my body refuses to move, my shoes plastered to the road like someone put super glue on the soles. Everything slows down, but the person who grabs me by the arms and pulls me out of the way does not. I slam into a wall of warm and solid muscle, of cool and soft fabrics. My jaw snaps closed, my teeth rattle, my head whips forward.

I don't realise my eyes are closed until I open them. I stare at someone's chest, clad in charcoal. My heart beats painfully against my ribs, and the blood pounds in my ears so that I can't hear properly. Then, my body starts to shake as I realise what nearly happened: I was almost run over.

And looking up into the face of my saviour, I don't know whether I want to cry because of the near-miss, or laugh because of my luck that the person I was trying to get away from actually just saved my life.