I kicked a loose stone on the path, watching it skitter into a bed of manicured lavender. “That was… awful.”
Roman slowed but didn’t stop. “You mean our Oscar-worthy romantic debut?”
I snorted. “I’ve seen high school productions with more sexual tension.”
He glanced back, one brow raised. His mouth twitched like he might smile, but he didn’t.
“We need practice.”
That got him to stop. He turned to face me, crossing his arms in a perfect imitation of mine. “Practice?”
“Yes.” I held his gaze. “If we’re going to convince your pack that I’m your doting, can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you mate, we need to actually get comfortable touching each other. Because right now, every time I graze your hand, you flinch like I’m giving you a prostate exam.”
Roman blinked. “Wow.”
“Too graphic?”
“Unexpectedly vivid.”
“Look,” I continued, trying to keep my voice steady, “if I’m going to pull this off, I need to stop feeling like I’m going to get electrocuted every time I touch you. And you need to stop acting like affection gives you hives when I initiate it.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“Youdo.”
He sighed. “Fine.” He nodded toward a wrought-iron bench tucked between two rose bushes that smelled way too romantic for the context. “Let’s practice.”
Wait. What?
I hadn’t expected him to actuallyagree.Not without at least three sarcastic remarks and a short monologue about boundaries. But he walked to the bench and sat down like this was a perfectly normal way to spend the afternoon.
My heart stumbled.
Still, I followed. Because I wasn’t about to back down after pushing the issue. I forced my legs to move, tried to channel the confident woman I’d pretended to be earlier. I sat next to him, close but not touching, then let out a slow, shaky exhale.
Roman’s knee bounced. He didn’t look at me. Then, deliberately, he placed his hand on my thigh. It wasn’t suggestive, but it wasthere.Solid. Warm. Unapologetic.
I mirrored the gesture. I felt the muscle jump beneath my fingers. He still didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead like the trees were about to deliver life-altering advice.
“See?” I said, too softly. “This isn’t so bad.”
His gaze cut to mine. Sharp. Intense. “I’m not flinching now.”
“No,” I whispered. “You’re not.”
Suddenly, the air between us pulsed. His fingers shifted slightly, curling tighter. My hand did the same. The space between our bodies shrank by inches. Knees bumped, then stayed.
I looked up at him, and we locked eyes.
Whatever this was, whatever game we thought we were playing, didn’t feel fake anymore. Not in that breathless space between inches. Not when his thumb brushed along the hem of my skirt. Not when my pulse kicked like a warning I had no interest in heeding.
I could smell him—cedar, skin, something wild and electric underneath. That ozone-sharp scent right before a thunderstorm.
My gaze dropped to his mouth.
He leaned in. Just barely.
And I met him there.
