“I should probably...” Jamie gestured vaguely toward the door. “You probably have places to be. Things to do. Tables to build.”
Sloane’s mouth curved. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m trying to give you an exit strategy before you realize what a disaster I am.”
“Too late.” Sloane’s hand found Jamie’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. The touch sent electricity through Jamie’s system, making his breath catch. “Already figured that out. Don’t care.”
“You should care. I’m a walking red flag.”
“Red’s my favorite color.”
Who was this guy, and why was he saying all the right things?
Before Jamie could formulate another protest, Sloane kissed him. Not like before, not deep and consuming. Just a press of lips, firm and unhurried, that somehow felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
When Sloane pulled back, Jamie’s knees had forgotten their primary function. He blinked, trying to restart his brain while his lips tingled and his pulse thundered in his ears.
“I should go,” Sloane said, but he didn’t move.
“Yeah. Probably.” Jamie didn’t move either.
They stood there, inches apart, the apartment quiet around them. Outside, a car door slammed. Someone laughed in the hallway. Normal sounds from a normal world that felt very far away.
Sloane’s thumb traced Jamie’s jaw once more, the touch gentle enough to make Jamie’s throat tighten. Then he stepped back, breaking the contact, and the loss of it felt like cold water.
“I’ll text you,” Sloane said, heading for the door.
“You better.” Jamie followed him, hands shoved in his pockets to keep from reaching out. “Otherwise I’ll assume you’re just collecting disaster stories for your memoir.”
“Chapter Six: The Guy Who Face-Planted into My Charger.” Sloane paused in the doorway, looking back with that half-smile that did dangerous things to Jamie’s composure. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The truth of it settled in Jamie’s bones. He didn’t hate Sloane. Didn’t even come close. Which was terrifying in ways he wasn’t ready to examine.
After Sloane left, Jamie closed the door and leaned against it, letting his head thunk back against the wood. His lips still felt electric. His hands trembled slightly when he raised them to his face.
What the hell was he doing?
Getting involved with someone right now, with William still lurking like a bad omen, was the worst possible decision. But Sloane made him want to ignore every sensible instinct he had.
Jamie pushed off the door and headed for the bathroom. Work started in two hours, and he needed a shower to clear his head. Needed to wash away the smell of Sloane’s cologne and the memory of his touch and the stupid, hopeful feeling blooming in his ribs.
Steam filled the tiny bathroom, fogging the mirror. Jamie braced his hands against the tile, head bowed, trying to process everything that had happened in the last twelve hours.
He’d gone to the bar to forget William. Instead, he’d found Sloane.
Found someone who kissed like a promise and looked at him like he mattered.
Someone who made him want things he’d convinced himself he didn’t need.
Jamie reached for the soap, scrubbing away the lingering scent of cedar and clean musk, even as part of him wanted to keep it.
He had to be smart about this. Had to protect himself. Getting attached to Sloane would only end badly.
Even if every cell in his body wanted to do exactly that.
