That gave me pause. The air between us tightened. I didn’t answer—not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t know what the answer was.
He waited a beat, then nudged the soccer ball into my hands again. I focused on the feel of it—cool leather, slightly scuffed from actual use. Not some prop. Not pretend. Like everything else with Kieren lately, it was too real to fake.
“Let’s go again,” he said, stepping just far enough away to make it safe. And yet I still felt him, buzzing beneath my skin.
I lifted my leg, kicked up—and actually got one bounce this time. The ball dropped back down and rolled forward, but I’d made contact. A pathetic little success, but still.
“Hey,” I said, turning to gloat. “That counted?—”
He wasn’t looking at the ball.
His eyes had dropped—low enough to catch the edge of my shirt, which had ridden up slightly with the motion. Just a sliver of skin, nothing scandalous. But his jaw flexed hard, like it did when someone pushed him too far on the field. His arms folded, biceps straining the sleeves of his team gear. Entirely too intense for something so casual.
I swallowed, heart thudding against my ribs.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I said, trying to sound annoyed instead of breathless.
His response was instant. Low. Unapologetic. “Then stop looking like that.”
And just like that, the air thickened—hot, humid, dangerous. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling. It pulsed between us, electric and unspoken.
I should’ve said something smart. Made a joke. Walked away.
Instead, I stood there, burning from the inside out.
Because the truth was, I liked the way he looked at me. And I hated that I liked it.
Worst of all?
He knew.
The photographer adjusted something on the camera, then looked up with a grin that made my stomach twist.
“Let’s try something more candid. Couple-y. Like you’re just… caught in a moment.”
I barely had time to react before Kieren moved beside me, his hand finding my waist like it belonged there. Not tentative, not uncertain—just solid, confident, warm. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. I wasn’t sure I could.
He was so close. His scent—something clean and woodsy—wrapped around me, completely unfair. His fingers pressed gently through the fabric of my jacket, grounding me in a way that made everything else fall away.
I looked up at him, and there it was again—that look. That focused, unreadable intensity he reserved for things that mattered.
“We’re really good at faking it,” I whispered, not trusting my voice any louder.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I’m not faking anything right now.”
The camera clicked.
I barely registered it.
Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like PR.
It felt like something dangerously real.
And maybe that was the problem.
Chapter 20
Kieren
