I lean down until she feels my breath. “If you think this is me flirting, sweetheart, you’re in trouble.”
Her knees actually wobble.
I catch the edge of the drawer behind her so she doesn’t topple.
Her chest rises too fast.
“This is wildly inappropriate,” she murmurs.
“You keep saying that.” I move closer, lowering my voice. “But you don’t walk away.” She opens her mouth. No sound comes out. I smirk. “Thought so.”
She pushes lightly at my chest—not enough to move me, just enough to feel the hardness under her palm.
I go still.
Her eyes widen at her own boldness. “I— I didn’t mean?—”
“Don’t apologize,” I say, voice rougher than I intend. “Feels good.”
She gasps softly.
I straighten before I forget where we are, putting an inch or two of space between us.
She sways like she wants that inch back.
Her hand still rests on my chest.
Slowly—too slowly—I reach up and wrap my fingers around her wrist, guiding her hand down.
Heat shoots across both of us at the contact. Her breath trembles. I let her go.
“Your extinguisher works,” I say, voice steady even though I feel anything but. “So does your outlet. Everything checks out.”
“You didn’t check anything,” she whispers.
“Didn’t have to.”
“Then why?—”
I meet her stare dead-on. “Because I wanted to see you.”
Her lips part.
She looks young like this—caught between curiosity and fear, but not afraid of me. Afraid of whatthisis.
I step back, giving her air. “See you Monday, Miss Tate.”
“That’s… three days from now.”
I stop in the doorway and look back.
“On second thought, maybe I won’t wait three days.”
She freezes. Her blush creeps down her throat again, flushing her chest. I see it. I feel it. And it takes every bit of discipline I’ve ever built to walk out of that classroom.
As I hit the hallway, I hear her exhale like she’s been holding her breath for the last five minutes.
Good.
