I grin. “Really?” My heart is determined to pound its way out of my chest.
“Don’t let it get to your head.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, still tense, and glances away.
“It’s kind of a big deal.”
“It’s really not.”
“You totally missed me.”
“I didn’t—”
“So much.”
“I—Jesus.” He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he mumbles.
“No?” I whisper. “How was it supposed to go?”
I am shamelessly loving every second of getting under his skin. As I take a half-step forward, he tracks me closely. His hard chest is right in my line of sight. I watch it for a second, the way it moves up and down in sync with mine, and warmth pulses through me.
All I’m doing is standing close. Soaking in the way his heat strokes my skin. Yet he still manages to reset my heartbeat to a new,electricrhythm.
Slowly, I slide my gaze back up to his.
He flicks his eyes between mine. After a second, he drops his head and swallows like he needs a minute to get his thoughts together. His chin is still dipped, grey eyes softening when he finally meets my gaze again, and the mere look squeezes my core. It’s everything his strong build and intimidating stance isn’t. His voice might melt my insides, but these little looks are intoxicating.
“Listen ...” He steals a peek over his shoulder, toward the wall blocking our view of the kitchen, then turns back to me with a sense of urgency. “Blue, I need you not to mention anything about Henry.”
“Who is he to you really?” I ask quietly.
Rubbing the side of his jaw with his palm, he shakes his head. “A friend. He helped me out when things were rough. And now he’s doing me another solid.”
“By ... pretending to be your dad?”
He pushes out a breath. “It’s a long story. But yeah, for today, he’s Conway Hunt, the architect. Can you please”—even his eyes stress the importance of his words—“please, just roll with it? I’ll explain everything later, but right now—”
A door slams upstairs, and we both snap toward the sound. Then footfalls race toward the staircase directly across from us, and we’re seconds away from being spotted like this. From Kimmie overhearing everything he’s saying about his fake dad, if she hasn’t already heard.
I have no clue when I curled my fingers around his T-shirt, but the next thing I know, I’m grappling blindly for the doorknob behind me and yanking Joshua into the coat closet. The door closes, drenching us in near darkness at the same moment someone skips through the living room.
I’m panting when I look up, tracing the shadowed outline of Joshua’s face. My fingers are still clenching the material of his shirt. The hard lines of his stomach move up, down, up, down, against my knuckles. His face becomes clearer the longer I watch him, his brows crashed together, his breathing matching my own.
A rasp coats his words when he asks, “You always pull strange guys into dark places?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” I pull my lip between my teeth, trying and failing to hold back a quiet laugh. “Besides, you could’ve stopped me.”
His mouth lazily hooks up at one corner, and goose bumps skate across every inch of me.
“Hey,” I say quietly, peering up at him, “I won’t tell anyone, okay? Promise. But you’ll explain later, like you said?”
He presses his lips together and nods.
Eventually, I release the death grip I have on his shirt. But instead of pulling back, I flatten my palm beneath the material, directly on his lower stomach. It’s a bold move, bolder than I feel, and my fingers tremble against him. But Joshua Hunt is too skilled at keeping others at a distance, and I needed a way to close the space between us before he pushed me away again.
A faint shudder rolls beneath my palm; his jaw ticks.
I watch him with bated breath. Wait for him to shove my hand away or step back. But a second passes, then another.
He doesn’t move to stop me.
