She turned at the sound of his voice behind her. Clayton stood close—too close—his breath warm against her shoulder.
“Dad’s already mad.” She tilted her empty glass. “I’d better not.”
His chuckle was low, knowing. “Shorty gave me shit too, if that makes you feel any better.”
“It does.” A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you.”
“You enjoying the fireworks?” he asked, glancing up at the sky.
“Not really,” she said. “They scare the dogs, and they’re bad for the environment.”
“Yeah, well, they’re also a waste of money,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, I asked your parents to swing by your place and pick up the dogs on their way home.”
“Good thinking,” he said, then nodded toward the road. “Hey, I’ve got a bottle of Clase Azul at my house.”
She raised her brow. “Why do you have a bottle of expensive tequila?”
“It was a gift from the promoter at Bridgestone,” he said with a shrug. “So technically it’s half yours.”
She hesitated for half a second before bending down to slip off her shoes. When she straightened she met his gaze, full of challenge. “I’ll race you back to your house.”
Clayton grinned, slow and lazy. “You’re on.”
She took off first, her bare feet hitting the ground, but he caught up fast. His long legs ate up the distance between them until, in the final stretch, he passed her completely, leaving her huffing and muttering curses.
By the time she reached the porch she was out of breath, her cheeks hot to the touch, her pulse kicking from more than just the run.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” he teased, his voice thick with amusement.
“Not fair,” she panted, bracing her hands on her knees. “Pebbles got stuck in my feet.”
Clayton stepped closer, reaching down to pluck a tiny rock from the arch of her foot. His fingers brushed against her skin, lingering just a second too long.
He smirked. “Sounds like ayouproblem.”
The way he was looking at her—smirking, smug, but also something else—made heat burn low in her stomach.
Jamie swallowed. “Shut up and get the tequila.”
His smirk deepened but he turned and opened the door, holding it for her. “After you, slowpoke.”
They entered his house and she sank onto his couch, stretching her legs out with a sigh. The cushions were soft, swallowing her up, and for the first time all night she felt like she could breathe.
Clayton set the bottle of tequila and two glasses on the coffee table, his fingers lingering on the rim of one. The motion was slow, deliberate, like he was considering something.
“I need to change back into my normal clothes,” she said, tugging at the dress clinging to her skin. The fabric felt too tight, too foreign, like it didn’t belong to her. “This dress is killing me.”
He leaned against the couch with his arms crossed, his gaze dragging over her, heat coiling between them. His voice was smooth, almost lazy. “Think it’s killing me more.”
A flush crawled up her neck before she could stop it. She laughed—too quick, too light—before standing and heading to the bathroom.
When she came back out in her tank top and jeans, her body finally her own again, Clayton had poured them each a glass of tequila. It wasn’t for shots. This was meant for savoring.
She lowered onto the couch, closer to him than she realized at first, and reached for her glass. Her fingers brushed his as he handed it to her. Warm. A little rough. The contact sent a pulse of something sharp and electric through her skin.
She should have pulled away, should have ignored the way her breath shortened, how her stomach tightened. But she didn’t. Not right away.
