He swallows, so loud I can hear it. Fire kindles in his eyes as they move over my face. It makes me feel light-headed, because he’s looking at me like he did while I quivered against him on the plane. Heat flashes through me at the memory.
Jesus Christ.Get ahold of yourself!
“I should go,” I mumble, turning back to gather my things. My hands are shaking and I knock the jar of India ink, sloshing some out onto the table.
Shit.
I spin towards the kitchen, searching for paper towels, but his modern cabinets have everything stored away out of sight. Spotting a stack of napkins from dinner, I throw myself across the kitchen island to try and grab them. There’s a groan behind me, and I glance back over my shoulder to find Luke’s eyes fixed on my ass, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Okay, that’s on me. Iambent all the way across the kitchen island and, yes, my ass is right up in the air. But that is the least of my problems right now.
I grasp the napkins and straighten up, turning back to him. His gaze meets mine and he blinks. A muscle pulses in his neck.
“Uh—” I gesture past him to the ink on the table, but he’s oblivious.
“Fuck, Harriet,” he rumbles, and my thighs squeeze together.
And then I hear a sound that makes my blood run cold.
Drip. Drip, drip, drip.
We both whirl around to find black ink, trailing over the edge of the table and pooling onto the white rug.
Oh my God. No.
My hand flies to my mouth. I stand, frozen with horror. Luke glances from me to the ink on the carpet and a frown knits across his brow.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt as panic closes like a hand around my throat. “Is there a way we could somehow—”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “I think it’s ruined.”
My stomach dissolves. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck. “Shit, I’m sorry. It was an accident. I can get it cleaned, or I’ll replace it. I didn’t mean—”
“Forget about it.”
“No,” I insist. “If we can’t clean it I’ll buy you a new one. You just have to tell me—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He lets out a long breath, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He might besayingit doesn’t matter, but I can tell that it does. The way he’s looking at me makes something sharp twist through my middle, and I’m horrified when I feel tears sting behind my eyes.
“I’m sorry.” I glance away, blinking rapidly and trying to hold myself together. Then I grab my things and race out the door.
15
Istare at the ceiling, willing my brain to switch off. I’ve been in bed for three hours and I can’t stop replaying what happened at Luke’s—how one moment he looked like he wanted to take me right there on the kitchen island, the next like he couldn’t stand the sight of me. Every time I picture his face after I spilled the ink, my heart sinks. I’m sure it’s an expensive rug, but it was an honest mistake.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand and I roll over, blinking at the bright light from the screen in the dark room. My pulse accelerates when I see who the message is from.
Luke: Harriet, I’m sorry. Are you okay?
I prop my head up on my hand, reading his words over again. Am I okay? I’m not sure, but I type out a reply anyway.
Harriet: I’m fine. Sorry again about the rug.
I expect to receive another text, but Luke’s name lights my screen with a call. I hesitate, checking the time. It’s nearly two in the morning, and I don’t know if I want to talk to him.
But I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey.”
“Hey.” His deep voice comes down the line, rougher than usual. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be awake.”
