My butt hit the edge, and my back bowedto put some space between my now looming neighbor and me. Killian’s handsrested on either side of my waist, making an impenetrable prison while his bodyleaned over mine, holding my full attention.
I tried not to smell him again, buthe was everywhere. And so very close. His thighs rested against mine. Hisstomach against mine. Our chests were just inches apart. If I leaned forwardjust a smidge, I could head butt him. Or bite him.
Or kiss him.
I swallowed through thedysfunctional lump in my throat. “What are you doing?” I whispered.
“Forcing a confession.”
“Wh-what?”
“Confess, Vera. Confess that thereview was yours and that you didn’t mean it.”
I rolled my eyes, faking bravado.“Never.”
His head dropped, the heat warming,shifting, evolving from one kind of frustration to another. His gaze dropped tomy mouth. “Vera,” he warned.
I shivered at the way his deep voicecurled around my name. He was so close. So intimidating. So something I wouldn’tlet myself admit.
“Tell me it’s yours,” he demanded.
Shaking my head, I realized I shouldhave been afraid of him right now. The trauma of my past should have triggeredall kinds of fear and panic and desperation. I should be kicking and screaming orat the very least curled up into a helpless ball of uselessness.
Instead of freaking out, I feltsomething different, something fluttery and hot and hungry. At the same time, Irealized I was taunting Killian on purpose, seeing just how far I could pushhim, I admitted that I wasn’t afraid of him. That I even might have, sort of,trusted him.
At least I trusted him not to hurtme.
If I would have imagined thisscenario yesterday, I would have denied it. I would have stood by the fact thatevery executive chef, maybe every man on the planet (except my dad and Vann),were the same. They all had excessive egos and the need to be coddled,worshiped and obeyed. And when they didn’t get their way, they took it out onwhomever could be hurt the most.
Yesterday, I thought all men wereassholes, and the lead asshole of them all was Killian Quinn.
Today, he’d made me acknowledge thetruth. Killian could be an asshole, but he wasn’t only an asshole. And he was aman, but he wasn’t a bad man.
Most of all, he wasn’t anything likeone man in particular.
And that was huge for me. Not onlydid I not distrust Killian, but I trusted him. I trusted him not to hurt mephysically, verbally or emotionally. Maybe he’d said some exasperating thingsin the past, but they hadn’t been meant to manipulate or control me. He hadn’tbeen spiteful or mean for the sake of being mean.
Most of all, they hadn’t destroyedwhole pieces of me at a time. If anything, I’d become a better chef because ofhim.
That didn’t mean he was completelyforgiven for past actions or that my Yelp review wasn’t completely justified.But it did mean that maybe I wasn’t completely broken after all.
“Make me,” I dared him.
His eyes dropped to my lips again,and I resisted, but barely, the urge to lick them. “Admit that it’s yours and Iwon’t have to torture you.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise.“I’m terrified. Really.”
Half his mouth lifted in a cockysmile. “Good.” Then he extracted his revenge. By tickling me.
The bastard.
One hand clamped down on my righthip. I was so surprised at first, that I squeaked. But then he pressed histhumb into a sensitive spot, and I started to wiggle. His other hand grabbed myother side, and I looked like a lunatic trying to shake him off me.
I gasped for air as his hands movedover my torso from hip bones to ribs, poking, squeezing and prodding untiltears leaked from the corners of my eyes. He didn’t let up. He tickled me untilI didn’t think I could breathe—until I was positive that I was going to diefrom being tickled too much.
“Okay!” I panted. “You win! Youwin!”
“Admit that you wrote the review,”he demanded.
