“So,” I say, trying to steady myself, “you need help picking fruit.”
“I don’t need help,” he growls.
“You very much looked like you needed help.”
“I was evaluating my options.”
I snort. “They’re peaches, not criminal suspects.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smirk. “You see me evaluate suspects?”
“I saw you evaluate me in a closet.”
He goes unnervingly still.
“You weren’t a suspect,” he says, voice rough. “You were trouble.”
“And here I thought we agreed I was innocent.”
“You’re not innocent.” He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “And I’m not fooled.”
My pulse trips into a sprint.
“Maybe you’re projecting,” I manage.
He lifts a brow. “Onto who?”
“Me.”
Saxon’s eyes drag down my body—slow, heavy, like a hand.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, “if I were projecting, you’d know.”
I choke on air.
He smirks. Actually smirks. “Cute.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re flustered.”
“I am not flustered.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not?—”
He moves fast—just a small step, but enough to put his mouth level with mine, close enough I feel the heat radiate off him.
“Prove it,” he murmurs.
My breath trembles. He watches my lips part involuntarily. Watches every reaction I try desperately to hide.
His voice drops even lower. “Didn’t think so.”
I shove a peach against his chest to get some distance. “Here. This one’s perfect.”
He doesn’t take it right away. Instead, he glances from the peach…to my hand…to my mouth… Then finally accepts it.
