Because I’m already too invested.
Because I hate how much it mattered.
Instead, I said lightly, “Men flake.”
“I don’t.”
The certainty in his voice sent heat sliding down my spine.
I turned toward him fully now, one knee tucked under me on the sofa.
“Good to know.”
His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.
My pulse stumbled.
God.
We were inches apart.
I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The cut near his cheekbone. The tiny scar at his lip.
Real.
Dangerous.
Alive.
“You always this forward?” he murmured.
“Only when I know what I want.”
His gaze darkened.
“And what do you want right now, Manhattan?”
The air thickened.
My brain screamed at me to slow down.
My body ignored it completely.
I let my gaze drift deliberately over him. The broad shoulders. The strength coiled under his T-shirt. The hands that looked like they knew how to hurt people—and maybe how to hold them, too.
Then I met his eyes again.
“You.”
The word came out softer this time.
But no less true.
A muscle flexed in his jaw.
For a second, I thought he might actually kiss me.
He leaned in slightly, breath warm against my cheek.
