“I know you’re, like, probably a thousand years old on the inside, but there’s this cool new exercise called walking. I sometimes participate.”
“Well, you’re terrible at it. Consider picking up a new hobby. And maybe do it someplace you’re allowed to be.”
Her eyes narrow, and she glances at my hands. For a moment, I wonder if she’s remembering our night together, but then she leans in and grabs my index finger, holding it up as if inspecting it for something.
A small spark zaps me where she touches, but I don’t try to withdraw. It’s her warmth that keeps me in place.
That’s all. She just feels good against my cold fingers. It doesn’tmeananything.
“Why is a college professor traipsing through the woods by himself with a mask?”
Now I do pull away. “I’m not sure you’re entitled to that answer, Ms. Anderson.”
“Since you tripped me, I think I am.”
“Ididn’ttrip you?—”
“Explain yourself, Boy Scout.” She gets to her feet and aims the phone at me again. “Or else.”
The irritation and determination on her face make my chest tighten. I inch forward a step, letting the toe of my shoe graze the heel of her boot. Walking, my ass.
Why she feels the need to lie when I can see right through her, I don’t know.
My heart thumps heavily as I reach out, gripping her chin and tilting her face. Her skin is soft and warm against mine, and the gesture causes her mouth to snap shut.
I can hear my pulse raging like a river between my ears.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be touching her, but…
It isn’t like this with anyone else.
Initiating or receiving, it doesn’t matter—my body normally rejects it all, my brain recoiling in disgust. The feel of someone against me dredges up nausea and migraines and nightmares.
But she’s different. Has been from the moment we met.
My fingers ache to graze her. To caress her. To be inside her.
Is this heightened craving a result of the night we already shared? Or the realization that I can’t actually have her—which in turn makes her safe.
“You really think you can fend off a guy who’s got eight inches of height and at least fifty pounds on you?”
Her eyes widen slightly, confusion swirling in those hazel irises.
I lean down, moving her head back more, so she has to bend to keep from breaking in half.
“If I wanted to have my way with you out here, who’s going to stop me?”
Defiance shines in her gaze. “Ah, so you’re one ofthoseguys.”
“You wouldn’t know, would you?” I ask. “You just keep manufacturing these moments alone with me without knowing what sort of man I am. I could be biding my time, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.”
“That would be my luck.”
Something in the way she says that—like she’s resigned herself to an unfortunate fate—dispels the illusion. I drop my hand to my side, watching as she blinks slowly, trying to process the shift.
Dark red liquid drips from a cut on her forehead, likely from where she face-planted. It’s next to an older scab, and I wonder how a woman who seems so graceful in class can also be so clumsy.
The urge to wrap her in Styrofoam and hide her from where she can get hurt surges in my chest, but I shove it away.
