“Whoa, brother.” Dexter holds up both hands, the picture of surrender. “I wasn’t trying to pry or make assumptions. I was asking because I care about you. If you decide to pursue something with her, I want to make sure you’re not the only one cutting yourself wide open.”
I drag my hands through my hair, tug hard, then drop them. “I know. And you’re right.” My voice is quieter now, the fight gone. I press the heel of my hand to my brow, take a breath. “My head’s everywhere. George, work, Stephanie’s random shit—and then Tori bulldozes in like the most perfect temptation I’ve ever seen, right there in front of me, every damn day.”
I let out a laugh, half amusement, half exasperation. “In one day—hell, one hour—I’ll feel grief, annoyance, happiness, contentment, and more turned on than I’ve been in years. And those last three? Entirely because of her.” I gesture toward the dining room window, where she’s still laughing with Alis and Skye.
“Do you know how much of a mind fuck that is? When all I’ve felt for more than three years now is empty?”
Dexter doesn’t answer right away. He just nods, slow, steady. He knows. He’s seen it—watched me burn down into someone angry and bitter and broken. Watched me try to claw my way back.
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“What?”
“Feelings,” he says, hiding a smirk behind the lip of his glass.
TWENTY-FOUR
TORI
Finals week is hell.It’s the week before Christmas break, students are feral, professors are cranky, and the copy machine is on its third nervous breakdown of the morning. The room smells like scorched toner and hot plastic, the kind of air that roughs up your throat. Someone left a half full coffee mug cooling into bitterness beside the paper cutter. I am one jammed paper tray away from committing a felony.
And to top it off? I’ve spent every day this week proctoring exams, babysitting grown ass adults with graphing calculators, and running errands for Dr. Johnson like I’m his personal assistant instead of the faculty secretary for this entire pod.
So yeah. I’m over this week. It’s Thursday, but it should be Friday.
I’m once again in the copy room, feeding a thirty-page exam into the machine, when I feel him enter.
Leo Euler doesn’t knock. He doesn’t clear his throat. He doesn’t even pretend to give me warning. He just shuts the door, locks it (why though?), and suddenly the room feels about three sizes smaller. The lock clicks like a period at the end of a sentence I didn’t agree to. My shoulders clock his proximity before my braindoes—skin prickling, heat sliding between my shoulder blades (and thighs, no lies), pulse ticking in the soft spot under my jaw.
His palms land on either side of me, bracketing me against the copier, heat rolling off him like I somehow forgot what it feels like to be near him.
“Good morning, Tote,” he growls into my ear, voice low and smug and entirely too aware of itself.
I close my eyes. Inhale. His cologne is spice, pine, and something darker, and it’s not fair. I can’t remember the last time a scent has pulled me under like this—dragged me straight back to that trail, to that kiss, to the Thanksgiving kitchen where he leaned too close and we shared stolen glances like foreplay. Sun on my eyelids. His mouth opening against mine. The stupid, perfect sound he made when I pulled him closer. It’s all there, tucked behind my ribs like contraband.
I exhale, praying my voice doesn’t crack. “Dr. Euler. Can I help you with something?”
He chuckles, soft and lethal. And, because the universe hates me, my nipples pebble against my satin blouse like I’m starring in an HR complaint. Thin lace bra = zero protection. Fantastic. Truly an inspired day to wear fabric with the structural integrity of a dandelion.
Nope. Absolutely not. I swat his hand and circle to the other side of the machine to gather Dr. Johnson’s copies.
“If there’s nothing you need, I don’t know why you’re in here. Don’t you have exams to prep? Papers to grade? Other people to irritate?”
He shrugs. Completely unconcerned. “Probably. But this seemed more fun.”
Cocky bastard. Sweet bastard. Fuck-hot bastard.DAMMIT, TORI.
I reach for the stapler, too fast, the copies in my hand knocking it straight to the floor. Perfect. Excellent. Ten out of tenexecution.
Leo crouches, scoops it up, but instead of handing it back like a civilized adult, he presses it against his chest.
I reach for it, but he doesn’t move. Suddenly I’m not grabbing a stapler, I’m grabbing his hand, holding a stapler, against his chest. His heart is right there under my fingers, steady and solid, and then he steps closer.
The filing cabinet presses into my back. No escape. Not that I want one.
I can barely breathe. Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me? That’s a stupid question.
He doesn’t kiss me. Instead, that infuriating, adorable, oh-so-kissable half smile crests his face, and then stupid, stupid words fall from his lips.
