“Maybe.”
“I’m not trying to play house. I’ve never pretended to be anything beyond what I am.”
“And what exactly is that? A guy who drops in when it’s convenient? Who keeps things on his own terms? Who onlycares about himself?” I’d raised my voice and practically yelled at him, even though we were only separated by the small space inside the cab of the truck.
“You really don’t like me, do you?” He twisted his torso so he faced me. The spark of humor had left his eyes.
No. I didn’t like him. I was falling in love with him. The realization made me gasp.
“What?” His brow crinkled with concern. “You okay?”
When had this happened? How had I not seen it coming? I stared at him, taking in the way his hair curled around his ears—a little too long but also just right. The tiny scar on the edge of his mouth—the one he’d gotten while diving off cliffs in the Caribbean. He craved adventure, adrenaline, action. There was no way he’d be satisfied spending his life in a place as boring and uneventful as Ido.
“I’m fine. I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“Good.” The line between his brows softened. “There are much better things we could be doing with our time besides fighting.”
I struggled to fill my lungs with air. He hadn’t pretended to be anything different than what he was—a thrill seeker, a wanderer, someone who would always be incapable of settling down. That meant I had two choices—either put an end to whatever was growing between us. Or . . . take the temporary connection he could offer and enjoy it while it lasted.
Like I’d told him, I could take care of myself. I’d been doing it long before he showed up and would continue long after he left. “You’re right.”
“I am?” His eyebrows lifted. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t say that to people very often?”
I let out a soft laugh. “Because I don’t.”
“But you did tonight.” He looked like he was waiting for something to happen. Like I’d tricked him and was about tofollow up with the knockout punch that would leave him tied up against the ropes.
“It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”
He leaned over, closing the distance between us. “What circumstances are those, Ms. Baxter?”
“The circumstances showing me that you’re about to kiss me.” My hand went to his shoulder.
“Would you be receptive to a kiss from me?”
“What kind of kiss are we talking about?”
“What kind of kiss do you want?”
The kind that made my heart hammer in my chest, my stomach twist, and my panties seem to melt right off. “What kind are you offering?”
“Well”—his arm moved to the back of the seat behind me—“I could keep it soft and gentle like this.” He closed the distance between us and placed a delicate kiss on my cheek. My eyes closed and my pulse stuttered.
“That was . . . nice.” I opened my eyes. His face was inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in the blue-green irises I’d come to love.
“Nice? That’s tragic.”
“There’s nothing wrong with nice.”
“Maybe something like this would be more appropriate.”
My heart hitched as he moved in again, kissing a trail from my cheek to my mouth. His tongue pressed against the seam of my lips and I opened for him. I wanted to lean into him, deepen the kiss, and climb over the center console that so inconveniently separated us.
“Better?” His voice sounded rough around the edges.
“Mm-hmm.” I ran a finger around my lips, wiping away the traces of lip gloss I’d applied in anticipation of our burger date.
“What?” He sat back, his eyebrows drawn together.
