She shakes her head. “No. Does it look terrible?”
I shake my head, but I don’t stop touching her. I can’t seem to. Stroking her chin will do nothing to get rid of the bruise. But she feels so damn good, and her eyes are soft, and her lips are parted, and she smells like summertime.
“No, it doesn’t look terrible at all. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” I say as a breeze rustles the branches of the tree next to her.
She swallows roughly, and my chest aches with thepotent desire to run my hand down her throat, over her chest. I’d thread my other hand into her hair and pull her close. Then I’d kiss her chin, her cheek, her pink lips I can’t stop looking at.
But I can’t.
I let go of her.
“I’m okay. I actually feel a lot better now,” she says, her gaze drifting down to my hand before she regards me like she wants to say something.
Nighttime surrounds us, the city lights glowing in the distance, the rattle of cars and buses drifting by.
She meets my gaze, and with a fresh new vulnerability, she says quietly, “I saw you doing yoga this morning.”
It sounds like a confession, and I’m not sure why she would make it, so I lift a brow curiously and, like I’m piecing together details. “You mean when you were in the catio and I asked if you were okay?”
She gulps. “Well, yeah. And before.”
“Oh.”
For once, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know how to make sense of her admission or this charged air between us. This buzzy feeling in my body.
This crackling in my cells.
Instead, I give in once more. I slide my thumb along her jaw, then hold her face in my hand for a long beat. “Just make sure you don’t fall again,” I say, my voice low and smoky, “especially because we have a poisoning to plot.”
She smiles, but it’s subtle. A little sexy. And when she nibbles on the corner of her lips, my chest tightens.
My heart speeds up.
That hazy feeling spreads through me once again.
I’m not prepared to analyze it. To face it.
So I do something impulsive.
I lean across the fence, and I press a kiss to her forehead.
I tell myself it’s friendly.
But the summertime scent of her hair—her perfume, her lotion, whatever it is—seeps into my senses, intoxicating me. She’s champagne, and I want to drink the whole bottle.
I pull away, rasping out a “Good night, Skylar.”
I head back into my house with my dog before I do something truly dangerous—like hauling my neighbor over the fence and asking her to come inside with me.
In the morning, I stand on my second-floor balcony, moving past the edge of the hot tub and drinking my morning smoothie—but really, I’m looking for her.
Fuck it, I’m spying. Shamelessly spying. Trying to get a sense of when she might walk her dog so I can casually join her like it’s just a coincidence.
I down some more of the kale concoction, hoping the nutrients knock some sense into me, then…finally. I spot her moving around the kitchen with purpose—possibly getting ready to walk the dog. In no time, I dart downstairs, leash up mine, and head out the front door.
Yes!
Skylar trots down her steps, a hoodie sloping off her shoulder, jean shorts on, earbuds in. She holds Simon’s leash in one hand, and the other gestures wildly with her phone. She’s entirely focused on venting her thoughts to someone on a call. “Landon sent me an email this morning! They invited me to their opening!”
