Surprise Me.... Isabel Sharpe

      A dream after all.

      He wanted to puke even if his body wasn’t ready to. Melanie hadn’t come to him; there was no miracle there. Of course not. She’d come to his brother, the sex god, the hot masculine jerk without a shred of depth, without much intelligence, without room in his monstrous head to care about anyone but himself.

      Melanie’s type all over. What had Edgar been thinking? How could he even have imagined she’d crawl into bed with him?

      Stoner had bumped into her at the bar, invited her up to Edgar’s room, Edgar’s bed, knowing Edgar would be sleeping on the couch so as not to inconvenience his brother.

      Chicago? That would be Stoner’s invention. Which helped only a little, knowing at least Melanie hadn’t come into his apartment expecting to step over Edgar on the sofa bed and then screw his brother’s brains out a few feet away.

      He leaned back against the partition, making himself breathe slowly and carefully until the urge to lose his breakfast subsided. This was worse than when he’d introduced Melanie to his jewelry-artist downstairs neighbor, Sledge, in order to buy her one of his pieces. Sledge repaid him by hitting on Melanie and then telling Edgar all about it. This was much worse. His own damn brother, who had everything Edgar didn’t—except brains and integrity, which didn’t count for enough in this world.

      Edgar had grown up invisible to women, one of those kids fawned over by adults, a “good worker,” a “great help to his parents,” a “responsible citizen,” while his mess of a brother was like a bug zapper for the female sex. One after another, drawn to his light and his high voltage, zap, zap, zap, they went up in blue smoke one after another, the destruction of so many not slowing the lineup at all. While “responsible citizen” Edgar sat on the sidelines in awed misery.

      This time it was his heart that got busted, not his ego.

       Zap.

      He turned to the wall, took a few more deep breaths; the cold metal felt good against his forehead. Solid. Impartial. Calming.

      Okay, Edgar. Deal with facts. Fact: Melanie hadn’t known in the dark that he was himself. Fact: they’d had incredible sex. Fact: she’d left in the middle of the night, which he happened to know she didn’t usually do, because generally she was hopeful the relationship would continue and she wanted to be around in daylight. So something had been different last night for her.

      That was good. He’d concentrate on that. Regardless of whom she’d thought he was, she’d experienced emotion so intense she’d ducked out rather than face it. Which meant that on some level, however subconscious, she had feelings for him. Only she didn’t know it yet.

      Therefore, logically, all Edgar had to do was go out there and tell her she’d been with him last night. Make sure she knew he was an innocent party in this, explain the bed mix-up. She’d be shocked at first, but then her wheels would start turning, she’d remember what it had been like with him, Edgar, and she’d come around. She’d realize—she had to realize—that they were meant to be together. And once she realized that.

      There would be nothing stopping them.

      He lifted his head and grinned at his homely face, mind whirling, stomach at peace. He’d get to be with her again, maybe tonight. Those eyes, those lips, that body.

      Edgar closed his eyes and groaned, tortured by his so-long-yearned-for happiness now so closely within reach.

      Only one more thing to do.

      He straightened, splashed water on his face, washed his hands. Tried to tamp down his mess of wiry hair.

      Okay.

      Out of the men’s room, he walked back to his cubicle, one step at a time, adrenaline buzzing so loudly through his system he felt as if he were operating in a different dimension from the rest of the office.

      When he rounded the corner, Melanie looked up in concern, saved her file and turned her chair to face him. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry if this has upset you. You could have told me right out that you didn’t want me with your brother, you didn’t have to pretend—”

      “Melanie.” He sat, scootched his chair close to hers, took her hand. He was just going to say it. “Last night. In bed. That wasn’t Stoner. That was me.”

      She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the punch line. He didn’t crack a smile.

      The eyebrows sank slowly. “Edgar…don’t do that. It’s not funny.”

      “I’m serious. It was me. It was dark, so you didn’t realize, and I thought…”

      She took her hand away, eyes widening. Understanding dawned on her face, then rose and rose into full-blown horror. Not shock, not surprise, but horror. As if he’d just told her she’d slept with a person with active cases of every known STD. Or with her brother. Or with her dog.

      He waited. Waited for the horror to change to surprise, for those wheels to start turning, for her to connect the man in front of her with the passion and tenderness, the wild erotic chemistry, the panting straining desperate need to join and climax, and for that surprise to soften her expression, to part her lips, Oh, Edgar, that was you!

      None of that happened. She continued to stare as if she couldn’t imagine anything more disgusting than lying naked with him.

      Okay. He’d wait longer. She had to make the connection soon. Tick…tick…tick…

      Still nothing.

      He couldn’t bear it. Not one more ticking, torturous second of this pain or this humiliation, not one.

      A forced laugh, as real as he could make it. “Gotcha.”

      Her laughter wasn’t forced. It was loud and long and full of so much relief that his pain, which he’d been pretty sure was as bad as it could get, got worse.

      “Oh, my God, Edgar. You really had me. Ha!” She put her hand to her chest. “Damn. That would have been really, really—”

      He must have shown something in his face to stop her. Something. Because thank God she did stop, and looked confused and contrite.

      “Horrible?”

      “No, oh, no, Edgar. No. Of course not. It’s just that you and I…” She laughed again. Uncomfortable this time. He was glad. He wanted her to suffer, even just a little. “We’re not about…that.”

      “Right.” She was wrong. She was so damn wrong, he wanted to jump up and bellow it, beat his chest and fling furniture around the office.

      But that wasn’t him. He was sweet, gentle Edgar, who let the world walk all over him rather than trip people up to get what he wanted. Who adored this woman unreasonably and would do anything rather than make her unhappy.

      So she’d go on being wrong, and he’d go on being her best friend, and she’d probably go on and try to screw Stoner again. And even when she did and the sex was bad compared to what they’d shared, even when she put two and two together as she writhed in bed with his brother and realized Edgar really had been in bed with her last night.

      At least he wouldn’t be there to see that look of sick horror on her face ever, ever again.