“Please.” My voice cracks, shrinking into that pathetic little girl who used to trail after him and Nick, desperate to be included. And now, for the pièce de résistance of humiliation: “My father… he hasn’t confirmed it, but I have this sinking feeling he’s bringing Blake. And he’s not exactly subtle about nudging Blake my way every chance?—”
“Wait.” His voice sharpens. “Blake? The suit Nick said’s been sniffing around your dad for the past year?”
“That’s the one.” My laugh comes out more wheeze than humor. “Pretty sure Dad sees Blake running the company while I play corporate Barbie. But there’s no universe, multiverse, or alternate dimension where I’m going blond.”
The growl he chokes back sends a shiver down my spine, dangerous and somehow… gratifying. Sunlight catches on his white-knuckled grip on the wheel. “And you’re thinking?—”
“If my father sees us getting along—because when the hell have we ever gotten along—I know him, he’ll latch onto the hope that we’re together or something. He’ll get it in his head thatI’m finally coming around. Getting ready to settle down at some point sooner rather than later.”
“With me?” His tone sharpens an edge that makes my skin tingle.
“Not necessarily with you, genius. Just overall.” My tone comes out snippier than I intend. “And with someone safe. Someone from the right social circle.” I wrinkle my nose at the word. “Which, unfortunately, includes you.”
"I'm barely in his social circle and I sure as hell am not safe." There’s that growl again, low and simmering, and my stupid toes curl.
“Not that it matters…” His jaw tightens, and the words come out clipped. “Because you’re not with me.”
Ouch. Okay then. Curling aborted.
“I’m so glad you made that clear. I was confused for a hot minute. Crisis averted GI Jackass. Still, I’d rather not fuel any hopeful assumptions on his part.”
“So what—you want to pretend nothing’s changed?”
My stomach twists at the subtle shift in his voice. Is it because he thinks it has?
"So what—you want to pretend nothing's changed?"
My stomach drops as his words hit too close to those quiet moments in the dark. When I let myself trace the edges of his wrist, feeling the quiet strength there. Let my fingers drift over his skin like I had any right to.
Oh God.
He wasn’t awake. No way. GI Joe would not have just laid there and let me—nope—sure, his fingers twitched under mine, but that was totally involuntary. Meant nothing. Did not mean he knows I—what?
Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know. I will not be served with a restraining order. It’s all fine.
Changed?
Pshawww, please.
"How has anything changed?" I force a shrug. Not that it matters. Whatever new ground this is between us, it has no place in the week ahead.
Right on cue and ready to ruin my life, the memory of his steady breathing, the warmth of his skin under my fingertips, the way I whispered things into the darkness I never meant for him to hear—it all crowds in, threatening to suffocate me.
Bury it now. Slap a tombstone on it. Move right along.
He flicks a glance in my direction, opens his mouth as though he's going to say something, and instead shakes his head and closes it once again. There's something in his expression that makes my chest tight. Like maybe he knows exactly what I did in those stolen moments when I thought I was safe.
Time to get my man—notmy man, but this man, panty bandit, or whatever—out of the corner he's trying to march us into. And maybe save myself from finding out just how awake he might have been.
“Nothinghaschanged, soldier boy. Fondling my my juju bits does not a commitment make.”
“I was not fondling your juju bits. I was fondling yo—never mind.”
“Fine, my crotch curtain.” This. Humor. Humor is good. Humor is healing. It’s not denial at all. Course correction at its finest!
His wince is priceless, like I stepped on his junk with my heel. “Those are two words that never need to be side by side again.”
“Undercarriage cozy, better?” I’ve got so many more where that came from, soldier boy. This is my lane. My arm floaties in the deep end.
