She’s right. Of course, she’s right.
“That’s not—“ I start.
She cuts me off again. “We had sex once, Cole. We’re both adults enough to move past it. You cannot use that as an excuse to not take on this project when we both know just how bad you need it.”
I look away because I cannot afford to let her see the truth in my eyes. She circles the desk, slow, deliberate, heat rolling off her. I should tell her to stop. I should tell her to leave.
I don’t. I can’t.
She steps in front of me, between my knees, hands on her hips, chin tilted in challenge. “What are you so scared of?” she asks.
My breath locks in my chest. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Sh—sorry, Ella, you—“
“Say it,” she insists, voice quieter, fiercer. “Say what you’re really afraid of.”
I tense, every muscle tight as a cable. “You know exactly why I’m keeping my distance.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Her voice softens to something dangerously intimate. I swallow hard, my pulse a fucking hammer.
“Your family,” I sigh. “Your father’s respect. Your brothers. This project. Your life. Everything that could get screwed up if you and I cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed.”
Her eyes flicker, something like hurt and heat flickering in them.
I push on, voice rough. “I don’t want to be the thing that complicates shit for you, Ella. I don’t want to disrespect your family and lose the one good thing I’ve got going in this town by doing something I shouldn’t.”
“And you think I can’t handle that?” she whispers.
“I think you’re trouble,” I whisper back.
She smiles, slow, wicked, beautiful. “Good. Because I like trouble.”
I’m about to push out of my chair, to put some fucking space between us, but she leans down, places her hands on the arms of the chair, caging me in.
“You’re not protecting me,” she says. “You’re protecting yourself.”
My breath stutters.
Her voice dips lower. “You’re scared, Cole. You’re scared because you liked it. You’re scared because you want to do it again.”
She leans closer, lips inches from mine. “And again. And again.”
Heat rips down my spine. My hands grip the chair so hard the wood creaks.
“You’re scared,” she repeats, whisper-soft. “And you hate that I know.”
Something snaps.
“I don’t hate that you know,” I growl.
My hand shoots out, grabs her waist, and drags her down onto my lap so fast she gasps. Her hands land on my shoulders, eyes going wide for half a second before all that fire floods back in.
“I hate that you’re right.”
