3. Say Stop

Catherine’s POV

His thumb presses just a little harder.

My breath stutters. The room shrinks until it’s just him and me, and the sound of my heart slamming against my ribs. It’s loud. Like it wants to jump out of my chest and embarrass me.

“Catherine,” he murmurs, my name heavy on his tongue. “This is your last chance.”

I lift my chin, though my knees threaten to buckle.

His eyes darken.

“That’s what I thought.”

His hands settle fully on my waist now. Heat spreads wherever he touches…reckless, terrifying, impossible to ignore. He steps closer. I can feel the warmth of his body, smell him…clean, sharp, dangerous.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he whispers, forehead nearly brushing mine.

I swallow. My voice betrays me. “I… I don’t know what I want.”

A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. “Liar.”

His gaze drops. Slowly. From my eyes… to my lips… to my dress… down my legs. Like he’s already imagining things he has no right imagining. My legs threaten to give out.

He leans closer. Inches away.

“Say stop,” he whispers against my lips.

My chest explodes.

I try. Nothing comes out. It’s like he has me under some spell…and I hate how much I love it.

And the worst part?

I don’t want him to stop.

“Time’s up,” he says softly.

His lips brush mine once. Barely a kiss…not even that. But it sends shockwaves through my body. My breath leaves me completely.

“If you don’t stop me now, I won’t.” he adds, voice low, dark, dangerously seductive.

Panic hits.

I shove him away, spin, and run.

I don’t stop until I’m out of the hotel, into the night, heart hammering, hands clutching my chest.

Oh my God. We almost kissed.

I bend forward, gasping. My legs feel weak. My head spins.

What the hell is his problem?

I thought he called me for fake dating. Revenge. Not… whatever that was. I smooth my dress, though it does nothing for my dignity.

I pause a moment on the curb, taking shaky breaths. The night air is cold against my flushed skin, and I let it soak in, grounding me. One, two, three deep breaths. Maybe…maybe I can survive the rest of the night.

I hail a taxi. Flee like the building is on fire.

---

At home, my mind refuses to rest.

His hand. His eyes. His voice.

That kiss that never happened.

When I finally sleep, Clinton is there. In my dreams. In my head. Everywhere.

By morning, my eyes are red and burning. I didn’t sleep at all.

I check my phone.

No missed calls. No messages.

I laugh softly. “Not like I expected him to call,” I whisper, lying to myself.

After a bath, I get dressed and head to the grocery store.

Big mistake.

Every man suddenly has his face. Tall man? Clinton. Short man? Clinton. Bald man? Somehow also Clinton. My brain short-circuits.

A sales assistant is talking to me, but all I hear is…

Say stop.

“Excuse me?” he repeats.

My head snaps up.

“Oh…sorry,” I blurt. “What did you say?”

He smiles politely. “Are you looking for something specific? I can assist you.”

I grab three packs of tissue. “No, thank you. I already found it.” Lie. I need my sanity back.

At the entrance, I bump into a guy.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I barely hear him. My eyes drift to his lips.

Clinton’s lips.

“I…don’t want to kiss you!” I yell.

He freezes, confused.

“I…uh…was just saying sorry,” he says slowly.

Kill me.

He laughs awkwardly. “Okay…maybe next time I ask, I’ll try not to get rejected.”

“I’m sorry!” I blurt, flailing, spinning to leave.

And that’s when the universe reminds me I’m cursed.

I spin too fast. Heel catches a display mat. My body pitches forward.

My hand shoots out… grabs fabric. His pant leg. At the ankle.

He yelps. I yelp.

His foot jerks. I’m falling, fingers tightening in panic. Sneaker squeaks. Cart rattles.

He flails. I anchor myself to him.

We stumble. Chaos.

A gasp.

And then…

I hear the belt slide through the loops.

His fabric loosens.

Gravity finishes the humiliation.

Pants slide. Not all the way. But enough. Knees flash pale. The entrance freezes.

I’m on the floor, still holding his trousers like a lifeline.

His face is red. Horrified.

Oh no. No no no.

“I… oh my God! I…” I scramble over my words. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…I wasn’t trying to…”

He yanks his waistband up in one swift, mortified motion. Mutters something I don’t hear.

I push away, scramble upright, ready to flee. I clutch my head. “What is wrong with me?” I mutter, panic rising.

Then it hits me, and I can’t hold it in. “Clinton, you bastard! What did you do to me?” I shout, tearing at my hair. People stare. I don’t care.

Every man walking past looks like him. Same face. Same perfect lips.

My fists clench. Shaking with anger, embarrassment, and… something else.

I can’t shop. I can’t think. I go home.

The hotel room follows me.

I call Amy. No answer. Phone off. Great.

It’s my day off, and I’m losing my mind.

By night, I can’t take it anymore.

I leave the house, head to a fast-food joint, and order fries. I try not to think. Fail.

I almost kissed him. Wouldn’t have survived that.

But the way he looked at me…so sincere, so damn seductive…still burns. His lips. God. I want to bite them and kiss them at the same time.

Danny used to kiss me like it was routine.

Clinton looks at me like it’s a challenge.

At least Danny never made my pulse betray me like this.

At least with Danny, I knew where I stood.

With Clinton?

I don’t even know where the ground is.

I drop a fry. Pinch my cheeks. “You’ve lost it, Catherine,” I whisper. The smell of oil and salt fills the air, grounding me a little.

Universe, please. I’m already broken from Danny cheating. I don’t need this.

Girls behind me laugh.

Then I hear it.

“Why the fuck is Clinton’s phone not connecting?”

I freeze. Turn.

Five girls. Don’t know them.

“Please, not him,” I whisper.

Another laughs. “Clinton Blunt is such a playboy.”

The name hits me like a slap.

“Give up,” another says. “He blocked you. Like the rest of us.”

My fries crush in my hand.

“What?” I ask before I can stop myself. “So…you’re saying he slept with all of you… and then blocked you?”

They shrug.

Something snaps.

I stand up so fast my chair scrapes loudly. Anger burns hot and sharp. Tears sting my eyes.

Wow. I really needed that reality check.

Clinton Blunt. National player. Playboy.

I laugh bitterly.

I storm out.

Outside, I hail a taxi, intending to escape the mess in my head…but something inside me rebels.

“Take me to the bar instead,” I tell the driver.

The city lights blur. Woodblock City looks beautiful at night, but I can’t enjoy it. I wish Danny were here. I wish he had never cheated.

My heart aches in a way alcohol can’t fix.

One drink, I tell myself. Just enough to quiet him in my head.

I step out. The night air is sharp. My chest feels tight…like something is about to crack open.

The bar doors glow ahead of me.

And suddenly I know.

Tonight isn’t going to ruin my pride.

It isn’t going to ruin my fake-dating plan.

It’s going to ruin the last piece of control I still have over my heart.

And I walk in anyway