Do something!
My inner voice, the one that warned me every fucking day to get away from Alec? It isn’t telling me to run and hide now. It’s screaming at me to do the exact opposite. Because this guy seems nice. And I could use...nice. Even if it’s just for five minutes.
Graham sets the bag down, and I punch the button for the intercom. “Wait.”
My hands shake as I flip the locks, and I take a couple of deep breaths so he won’t see how panicked I truly am.
Just keep it together for a few minutes. Long enough to thank him. And to apologize for being suck a dick over email. Then you can go back to being...pathetic.
Words fail me with him so close. He’s bigger than I thought. Wearing a black t-shirt stretched across a broad chest, ink peeking out from the sleeve to wind down his right arm. From what I can see, he’s completely ripped. Like almost body-builder ripped.
Dude must get killer tips at the bar.
And then he takes another lick from that fucking ice cream cone. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin, and his cheeks flush. “Should have eaten faster.”
“It’s...you’re...I mean...shit.” I’m leaning against the door frame like it’s the only thing keeping me upright—and it probably is.
“Want a bite?” He’s still grinning as he offers me the cone. Whatever my face does in response must be horrible because Graham’s smile falters. “More for me, then. These are for you.” He offers me the bag, but I almost fall over taking a step forward.
And then his hand cups my elbow, his fingers warm and strong. “Whoa. You okay?”
“Fine. This is my normal.” I should pull away, but fuck. I haven’t been touched—outside of my PT and doctors—in over a year, and this guy even smells good. Like bay rum. But his gaze is full of questions, and I don’t have any idea how much I can—or should—tell him. “Bad fall a little over a year ago. Couldn’t walk for more than three months.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s why the groceries...?”
Yeah, let’s go with that. Admitting to agoraphobia isn’t exactly sexy.
“One of the reasons.”
Pull away, Q. Before you do something you regret. Like invite him in.
I can’t seem to move from the spot or do anything to dislodge his hand from my arm, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to. Fuck it.
“Do you, uh...want to come in? I should put the ice cream in the freezer.”
Say no. Please say no.
Having him in my space is dangerous. But if I make him stand out on the porch any longer, he’s going to keep licking that cone, and my heart is going to keep racing and...
“If it’s okay. Or point me towards your kitchen and I can take care of the ice cream.”
“I’m not an invalid.” The words escape sharper than I intend, and Graham drops his hand. Shit. I cringe and blow out a breath. “Sorry. Reflex. The kitchen’s straight back.”
One advantage to letting him in? I get to watch his ass as he strides down the hall. As soon as he disappears, I shut the door and limp over to the couch.
Graham calls out, “Want a bowl?”
“Pretty sure you have at least two bites left in that cone. Or was that a limited-time offer?”
What the hell am I doing? Flirting?
His laugh carries, and dammit. I want to hear it again. “Fair enough.”
I track every one of his steps back to the couch, and he stops in front of me, the cone held at the perfect angle for me to take a bite. This has to be one of the hottest things a guy’s ever done, and as I taste the soft mint, I’m so turned on, it’s actively painful.
“You can finish it, if you want.” His voice is huskier now, deeper, and he’s still standing there, but now there’s a very distinctive bulge under his board.
Shit. I can’t keep leading the guy on when there’s no way I can legitimately start anything with him. “No. I’m good, thanks.” Sitting back, I straighten my shoulders and try to regain a measure of composure while he polishes off the last two bites.
