I scowl, and his smile deepens. Gripping my pencil like a knife, I rake it across my paper until averyloose interpretation of Brandon’s body starts to take form. Flicking my eyes to him only when necessary, I catch sight of Brandon flexing his pecs, making each muscle rise and drop in a ridiculous rhythm.
I bite back a smile even as Brandon’s smirk splits into a gloriously sexy one. Shaking my head, I try to concentrate, but now he’s wiggling his toes at me. My grin betrays me, and I roll my eyes, considering adding devil horns to my sketch.
I mouth, “Will you stop?”
His head has just begun a tiny shake as Ms. Njay thunders out, “Mr. Roberts,dohold still.”
A laugh escapes on my breath, and he grins again.
An eternity later, the class begins to draw to a close. Ms. Njayjabbers on about midterms, Brandon yanks back on his robe, and students file out of the classroom.
I stand. Although I’m numb from embarrassment, I’m still exquisitely aware of the tall man approaching behind me.
“Katie. Good to see you again.”
I try to wet my tongue, tucking a stray strand back into my messy bun before circling to face him. “Likewise.”
“And thanks for that coffee recommendation. Roasted is one of my favorites. I didn’t realize I needed their number before, but now? Ordering’s gonna be so much faster. Thanks.”
I clap a hand to my forehead and pretend to be embarrassed. “Gosh, did I mix up my number again? I love that place so much that sometimes I forget which one is mine. Whoops! Silly me.”
“No problem, love. Could happen to anyone.” He tips a grin down like getting fake numbered was all part of his master plan. “But now that you’re here, maybe I'll get your real one and take you out?”
The roguish smile on his face does weird things to my heart, like it’s suddenly taken up jump-roping. The familiar sensation has haunted me since two weeks ago when I sat beside him at Promontory Point.
I shudder at my stupidity, pouring out sensitive information that no one should have ever heard. And, unlike me, he isn’t as keen to keep promises, since he definitely didnottake me back to his place that night. So in an effort to prevent me from embarrassing myself again, I gave a fake number and insisted on calling a car to take me home.
Looking back, I’m grateful it happened this way. Because I don’t think my non-cling spray works on a guy like Brandon.
What’s more dangerous than a clingy guy with devastatingly good looks? One that has the power to makemecling.
“C’mon, scaredy Kate,” he murmurs, green eyes shimmering. “One date. How bad could I be?”
Bad. Very bad.
He ducks his head close and ruffles my ear with his breath.
“I dare you.” His words are grit and gravel, but in an exhilarating way.
Because small rocks are now exciting to me, apparently.
Something about the levity in his tone, the unbotheredness of his persona, intrigues me. He doesn’t take himself too seriously, otherwisehis pride would have been wounded beyond repair over me fake numbering him. Brandon doesn’t scare easily, and for some reason, it kind of makes me feel… safe?
“Fine.”
He hands me his phone, and I poke my real number into it with a sigh.
“Awesome,” he says. “Now let me see it.”
“Huh?”
“Your drawing of me.”
I rear back, clutching my sketchbook like I’m getting robbed. “No way.”
With viper-like skills, Brandon maneuvers the sketchbook out of my hands and busts up laughing.
“Why the hell do I have bunny ears?”
