I huff. My breath clouds in the wintry Montana air, dissolving between us.
“I was ready to retract my statement,” I say, “up until this moment. Now that you’re getting all up in my business, I stand by it.”
We’re standing by my Jeep now. Luke’s got an arm braced on the window, leaning casually against it, his body angled towards mine. Looking entirely too handsome and at-ease. Like he’s enjoying himself. Enjoying riling me up.
Maybe I'm enjoying it too.
Not that he needs to know that.
I put a hand on my hip, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.
Damn, he's tall.
“Listen,” I say, “I don’t need a job evaluation from someone who’s been working here for six hours. And if I wanted amateur psychoanalysis, I’d take another online personality quiz.”
He raises a dark eyebrow. “Anotherone? What did the first one say?”
“None of your concern.” I poke his chest. All muscle there. No give whatsoever. He's solid and warm even through his shirt. “You know, I liked you better when I thought you were the strong and silent type.”
A warm hand closes around my finger where it’s prodding his chest.
“So you’re saying you like me?” he asks.
The callused pad of his thumb skims slowly down my skin, sending a pleasurable shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Liked,” I murmur. “Past tense.”
“That’s a shame.”
He hasn't let go of my finger, and I'm making no move to pull away.
“Not really,” I lie.
Luke lets go of my hand.
He reaches past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder as he tugs the car door and holds it open for me. His body is a warm barrier between me and the bitter cold.
I slip past him into the driver's seat, hyperaware of the scant inches between us, and fumble with my seatbelt. My fingers are clumsy, whether from the cold or his proximity, I'm not sure. The click of the buckle sounds too loud in the quiet.
“Good night,” he says softly. “Drive safe.”
He shuts the door, but his hand lingers on the frame for just a moment, fingers splayed against the cold metal.
I start the car. For a moment, I just watch him walk away.
My finger moves to the window button before I canthink better of it. The glass rolls down with a squeak, letting in a gust of frigid air that does nothing to cool the heat in my cheeks.
“Hey, Pretty Boy,” I call out. “Thanks for helping me clean up today.”
Slowly, he saunters back towards me. My pulse picks up the closer he gets.
Bracing one hand on the roof of my truck, he leans down, close enough that I can see the flecks of lighter green in his eyes.
And then he smiles.
Holy hell, it’s a gorgeous smile.
Straight white teeth. A dimple creasing his cheek that I have the sudden, irrational urge to touch. It's a movie-star smile, but better, because it's not some actor turning on the charm for the camera. It's a smile just for me. Because of me.
