Are his eyes hazel? Or are they green?
Why have I never noticed before how much green is sprinkled in his irises?
“What are you doing?” I ask boldly, to try to fool both of us into believing I have any control in this situation.
“Where’d you get a phone?” he replies.
“I was talking to myself.”
His fascinating eyes meet mine, and I realize he has unbelievably thick lashes. They’re not long enough to be the kind that I’d envy, but they arestupidthick. He smells like sleep and salt and my kind of danger, which is the very, very, very last thing he should smell like.
And the very last thing I should be thinking about now is how much control he must have to be breathing like that, right in my face, and not strangling me. “Our agreement includes you not telling anyone about our agreement. Give me the phone or I’m getting it myself.”
“I don’t have a phone, and no one knows what we’re doing.”
“Who’sBea?”
He has a phone. He’s used it. And it’s undoubtedly one he bought with cash or his fake ID so that no one who’d want to track him could track him.
He could look me up and find out who Bea is in a heartbeat.
And that makesmyheartbeat stutter.
He wouldn’t hurt her.
I don’t think.
“Give. Me. The. Fucking. Phone.”
“Why don’t you trust me?”
“Because you’reyouand you have an agenda and you won’t tell me what it is. And that’s only the first reason.”
“People change when their whole life is ripped out from beneath them. You don’t know me. You don’t know meat all.”
“And that makes me trust you even less.”
He’s still in my face.
Still breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, the honey parts of the hazel in his eyes flickering like a candle fighting for its flame.
“So kick me out,” I tell him. “If you don’t trust me, kick me out. Take me to town and drop me off at a hotel. Then I’m not your problem anymore.”
I’d still be his problem, and we both know it.
But I’m enjoying the hell out of watching his nostrils quiver harder and his Adam’s apple bob and his lips tighten into a grim line while he has his hands on the arms of this chair, trapping me here.
I’m so damn messed up in my head right now.
Messed up enough that I don’t respond the right way when he sticks his fingers down my shirt and finds my phone in my bra for himself.
Because Ilike it.
Ilikehis fingers on my chest.
Iwanthim to touch me.
Iwantto work out this issue between us by grabbing him by the collar and pulling him the last few inches so that I can taste his lips, feel his stubble against my cheeks, and find out if this thing I’m feeling is mutual or if I’m truly, completely, and in all other ways fucking up my life one more time.
