He stops immediately.
We study each other for a while. I know he’s worried I’m thinking with my heart, but I’m not. I feel clear headed and in control. In fact, I feel as if someone’s come along and sprayed the outside of my eyes with glass cleaner and polished them until they’re completely smear free.
“You’re in love with me?” I ask.
He drops his gaze for a moment, then lifts it again to mine. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes answer for him.
“You should have told me,” I whisper. I say it, but I know why he didn’t. There’s no way Archer would ever make a play for another man’s girl, especially his best friend’s. Instead, he’s wanted me from afar, loving in silence, worshiping in secret.
Sometimes when I’m stressed, my heart develops an arrhythmia—an ectopic or premature beat, making it feel as if it’s stuttering. It’s doing it now, and I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm it.
All those times my mind has strayed to him, when I’ve been alone, just for a few seconds, when I’ve let myself think about him, imagine what it would be like to be with him… they all come flooding back. We’ve fought it for a long time, but this moment feels inevitable, as if we were on two roads that were always going to converge, or two orbits that were destined to collide.
Slowly, I pick up the bowl of chips and put it on the table. I unfold my legs and lift my arms, stretching my body. I didn’t mean to do it in a sexual way, but immediately I’m conscious of his gaze on me. He might still be fighting his attraction, but for once he lets his desire roam free. His gaze brushes over me like a sirocco wind, and my body stirs in response.
Lowering my arms, I shift on the sofa, moving partly onto the center cushion. Then I stop, facing him, and I meet his eyes.
He looks at the cushion, at how far I’ve moved, then lifts his gaze to mine again.
“You have to meet me halfway,” I say.
He gives a short laugh and looks away, out to sea.
I wait. Archer is not impulsive. He’s a man who needs time to weigh the pros and cons of a decision. He looks as if he’s admiring the view, but I know that he’s considering the various aspects of this, discarding some fears, adding new ones to the pile, weighing up one action againstanother, and no doubt over-analyzing himself until he hasn’t a clue what he thinks.
I have no doubt at all that his main thought is ‘my father would never have told her.’ He feels as if he’s let himself down with his admission. He put himself first for a few seconds, and now he’s kicking himself because he can’t go back. He’s changed us, our relationship, on a molecular level, like breaking an egg into flour and baking it into a cake. We can’t separate the ingredients anymore. We’re now a Victoria sponge, or a chocolate brownie, and that can’t be undone.
The analogy tickles me, and I laugh.
His gaze comes back to mine, and he lifts an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this,” he scolds.
I shrug. “A little.”
He rests an arm along the back of the sofa. He doesn’t move his body, but it is a move toward me. It’s a start.
“I was mentally comparing you to a chocolate brownie,” I say.
His lips curve up. He knows how much I adore them.
He sighs then, and I feel a twinge of sympathy, because I can see how torn he is.
“Do you ever get tired of doing the right thing?” I murmur.
His gaze slides to my mouth—he’s thinking about kissing me. “Sometimes.”
I deliberately moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue, and watch his expression turn helpless.
“Don’t you want me?” I whisper.
His eyes widen.
I tip my head to the side, amused. “Do I need to seduce you, Archer? Because I can, if that’s what you want.”
His brows draw together.
“I’m here,” I say. I brush my fingers across the sofa cushion. “And there’s nobody between us.” We both know I mean Jude.
“He’s still here,” he says.
