“Yup, heading home. It’s late.”
“It’s barely eleven,” I point out.
“That’s late for some of us.”
“Some of us don’t want the night to end,” Wyatt says, and there’s something in his voice that makes her stop fiddling with her keys.
We hang back a little, hands stuffed in our pockets. Waiting.
“What are we doing here?” she asks, looking between the three of us.
“Talkin’,” Jesse says, stepping closer.
“This doesn’t feel like talkin’.”
“What does it feel like?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, just bites her lower lip.
“You smell lovely,” Jesse murmurs, close enough now that he could touch her if he wanted to.
“She is lovely,” Wyatt adds, his voice a low rumble.
“Very lovely,” I finish with a grin.
Callie’s breath catches, and she shuffles her feet.
“You three are… bad news,” she says, her voice wobbling.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jesse says.
“Isn’t it?”
“Depends on your perspective,” I tell her.
“My perspective is that trouble gets people hurt.”
“Sometimes,” Wyatt agrees. “But sometimes trouble is worth the risk.”
“And sometimes,” Jesse adds, reaching out to trace a finger along her jaw, “trouble is exactly what you need.”
She shivers at his touch, and I can almost see the heat rolling off her. The parking lot suddenly feels very public. Very exposed.
“We can’t do this here,” she whispers.
“Do what?” I ask innocently.
“Whatever this is,” she says, waving her hand around.
“This is just three friends talking to another friend,” Jesse says, but his hand is still on her face and his thumb is brushing across her cheek.
“Friends don’t look at each other the way you’re looking at me.”
“How are we looking at you?” Wyatt asks.
“Like you want to devour me.”
“Maybe we do,” I say.
