“Nope,” he says.
“Of course not,” I grumble.
Without warning, Brandon steps so close that I stumble backward. My leather miniskirt presses against the still-warm seat of the bike. I can’t help but take a deep whiff of him. His bad-boy cologne smells spicy—like nutmeg, cedarwood, and sin.
“You should probably know,” his rumbling voice drops impossibly lower, “that forward, bossy women are just my type.”
The look in his eye further sends my world off kilter. Something stirs low in my stomach. The sensation is too intense to be butterflies and could only be described as feral.
Yup. I’ve got a case of feral butterflies for this man.
“Unfortunately,” he murmurs, “I still haven’t gottenyourname.”
“Kate.” I swallow. “Kate Chen.”
“OkayKatie.” The introduction of yet another nickname makes me roll my eyes, and he chuckles darkly. “Last question.”
“Finally,” I say, and he ducks his head impossibly closer.
“Do you trust me?” he whispers.
Brandon’s hot breath across my cheeks lights a flame across my skin. He is the perfect picture of danger. A breathing bad decision—and a cocky one at that. His eyes challenge mine, and I decide I’ve never trusted anyone less in my life.
Perfect.
I throw my arms around the column of his neck and close the distance between us.
The kiss tastes like fire—forbidden and outlawed.
Brandon doesn’t skip a beat before his lips take over, pressing mine into a rhythm so exhilarating that I instantly nominate this as one of my top ten encounters.
Maybe even top five.
I part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss. Brandon does, but he also one-ups me by lifting me and setting me atop the seat of the bike. His hands twine in my hair, and I run my fingertips across the rough prickle of his jaw.
I don’t know what I was expecting, orthinking, for that matter, but it definitely wasn’tthis.Every nerve ending feels like it’s been set ablaze in this perfect, all-encompassing distraction.
Besides, Brandon’s lack of hesitation and expert kissing skills tell me a lot about the kind of guy I’m dealing with. Even his friend still waiting nearby is utterly unfazed.
But that’s fine. Because we are the same, Brandon Roberts and I. And I know I won’t catch feelings because I’ve mentally sprayed my non-cling spray onto what my hands are telling me might be an eight-pack. So I devour this new distraction, almost able to hear my parents’ rage from the other side of Chicago.
I smile.
two
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Never let them see you sweat.
The motto I adopted six years ago in college is still easier said than done. Especially when I’m in my hot yoga class where tiny rivers of sweat drip into my spandex shorts. I release my scorpion pose and massage my trembling forearms. The class begins to settle, some lying, some sitting, to spend our last few minutes of the session in shavasana. Today, I choose to practice my meditation in a sitting position. I cross my ankles and wiggle a yoga block underneath my backside.
As soon as I still, the new instructor dims the lights. Notsodim that I can’t see his impressive calves as he walks past my mat or the way his eyes lock with mine as he settles onto his own. The calming music swells, and I can’t help but mirror the small grin he gives me. His dark skin is slicked with sweat, torso glistening like a glazed doughnut, but he’s the one looking atmelike I’m the tasty snack.
Unhealthy, unhelpful, but entirely delicious.
I think a tiny part of me will always be the reckless sorority girl I used to be. But using men as distractions isn’t a normal occurrence anymore, thank goodness. All it took was pilfering through a box of my Grandma Chen’s things I inherited after I graduated.
