He looks at me for a few seconds, and his gaze dips to my lips.
I swallow. He’s going to kiss me again. And I’m totally going to let him. Not just let him. My hands will be on those bare shoulders and sliding up into that hair in two seconds flat.
I await my fate, resigned. And a little impatient.
“Fine,” he finally says. “But we’ll discuss it after eating.”
I sigh and let go of him. I’m not going to fight him on this. A girl’s gotta eat, after all.
I take my seat and start twisting the pasta on my fork. “Does sending you a folder of the files work?”
“Aftereating,” he repeats.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I say as I put my forkful ofalfredo in my mouth.Gosh, that’s good.“I thought cops survived on donuts and coffee.”
“I’m just part-time,” he explains.
“For now.”
Twenty minutes later, our plates are clean, our sodas are empty, and we’ve both got smiles on our faces. His gaze meets mine, and he sighs. “Right. I know. Time to talk. Let me just rinse the dishes.”
Ugh. The man cleans up right after he eats. No days-old, crusty plates in the sink, no cereal so soggy and saturated it’s unrecognizable. The sink is, in fact, pristine. So, it’snotjust Tristan keeping this house in order.
“We can talk while we do dishes,” I say. “I’ll scrub, you rinse.”
“Guests don’t do dishes at my house.” He hip-checks me away from the sink. My heel catches on the floor mat, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me back toward him.
Just like that, the mood shifts, and I forget to breathe. Beau smells like home-cooked food, but behind it is his cologne, which smells like last night, whichfeelslike…
His grip on my wrist relaxes, and his hand moves to the small of my back, his lips drawing nearer and nearer. I put my palm on his chest to use as a buffer, but it’s the wrong move. It acts more like a magnet, drawing me closer.
I shut my eyes and force myself to think of Grams. Kissing Beau one night is one thing. It could be considered a mistake, a fit of madness. It’s an error in judgment that could be fairly easily combatted with a good PR campaign. Kissing him two nights in a row?
That’s the start of a habit.
But my, what a habit.
“Beau.” I pull away. “I can’t.”
His gaze settles on me. “Why not?”
Never has a better question been asked. As I look into hiswarm, brown eyes, I have no answer. Whycan’tI let myself get lost in this man’s lips and arms? He can cook, clean, move furniture, handle a group of crazy drunk frat boys. And man, can he kiss.
“I’m leaving,” I say lamely.
But it’s a solid excuse. Physical distance of the two-thousand-mile variety is fairly unsurmountable when it comes to something like kissing. But what’s the implication that comes along with those words? That my leaving is theonlything keeping me from letting Beau put those beautiful lips on mine? “Also,” I add, “I’m pretty sure I hate you.”
There. That should cover all the bases.
Beau’s mouth quirks up at one edge, and I shut my eyes because his smile does me in every time. “Right,” he says, his voice still soft and low. “Forgot about that minor detail. Well, Gemma Girl, can I offer you some advice?”
I nod my head quickly. I will take anything right now that might help me keep my head on straight and my mouth three Bibles’-width away from his.
“Watch your step,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Because if you put so much as a toe out of line between now and your flight tomorrow, you’ll be waving to your airplane from a pair of handcuffs in my holding cell, and you can kiss LA goodbye.”
“Threats,” I say. “Nice, Officer.”
“Hey, I could keep you here already, you know. You’ve been stealing from my yard, remember? I could press charges. So be on your best behavior.”
