Why does that statement feel loaded?
“Well,” I say, aiming for light, “at least you have room for all your late-night email sessions.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I do.”
I hadn’t realized it, but not just our bodies had shifted closer... at some point during our little talk his hand had drifted next to mine in the sand, so that our fingers are literally inches apart now.
I should move. Or get up entirely. Or... or...
In the dim light, I watch his pinky finger shift slightly.
Just a fraction.
It brushes against mine.
The contact is barely there. Skin against skin for maybe two seconds.
But it sends a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. Like, actual electricity, I’m not going to lie.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
This is bad.
Very bad.
Opposing-counsel-conflict-of-interest bad.
“Amara.” His voice has gone lower still.
I look at him. His face is half in shadow, half illuminated by the distant glow from the resort. This close, I can see the scar through his eyebrow. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he’s looking at me like I’m a problem he can’t solve and doesn’t want to.
I feel my cheeks heating. The blush creeps down my neck.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whisper.
“It’s a disastrous idea,” he agrees.
But his hand moves. Fully covers mine now. His palm is warm. Conforming in a way I don’t remember.
My stomach is doing this butterfly thing.
“We shouldn’t,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
“It won’t end well.” I swallow, trying to ignore my racing heart.
“Probably not.”
“I’ll just end up leaving in the morning,” I admit.
“I know.” His thumb traces across my knuckles. Just once.
The gentleness of it completely undoes me.
I’m already imagining what it will feel like to be in his arms again.
