"This is ridiculous."
"What is?"
"You." I gesture at him and the equipment. "You're playing games."
"I'm taking your test."
"You're mocking my test."
"Maybe your test is mockable."
The anger I've been keeping at bay flares.
"These assessments could save lives by detecting early signs of traumatic brain injury that end careers. That cause permanent damage. And you're treating it like a joke."
He nods respectfully.
"There she is," he murmurs.
"What?"
"The woman who walked into that therapy room and called me disgusting without flinching. The one that's not afraid to fight back." He stands, towering over me. "I was starting to think you've hidden her away."
My breath catches. The unwelcome scent of his woodsy cologne sharpens, threatening to make my head swim.
“I’m doing my job.”
“No,” he says calmly, leaning back against the exam table, that maddening smirk firmly in place. “You’re pretending. Pretending you didn’t feel anything. Pretending you’re not thinking about our kiss. Pretending I don’t affect you the same way you affect me.”
My heart stutters. The memory of Declan’s mouth on mine floods back. I lick my lips—then catch myself and stop.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then why are you looking at me like you’re trying to decide whether to slap me or kiss me?”
I bite my lower lip and look away. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Ivy.” His voice drops, just slightly. “You’re a terrible liar—and I can prove it. You bite your bottom lip when you’re nervous. Your voice goes up when you’re flustered. And right now? You’re gripping that table like it’s a life preserver.”
I force my grip to loosen, hating that he's right.
"You're projecting."
"Am I?"
He pushes off the table, closing the distance between us until there’s barely any air left to breathe. I inhale. Exhale. It does absolutely nothing to slow my pulse.
“Tell you what,” he says quietly. “Let’s make a bet.”
“I don’t gamble,” I mutter, though my voice gives me away—thin, unsteady.
“This isn’t gambling.” That infuriating confidence slips back into place. “It’s scientific.” His mouth curves, wicked and knowing. “If you can admit—right here and now—that you felt something when we kissed, I’ll cooperate with every single test. No complaints. No attitude.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll keep failing.” His eyes hold mine. “Your research data gets compromised by one very uncooperative subject.”
Hot fury floods my chest. “That’s blackmail.”
