But I can still see the image burned into my mind. The arch of his back. The pull of fabric across muscle. The strip of skin above his belt, and that line of wiry hair that disappeared into his pants…
Get it together.
“Kirsten?”
He’s moved closer. I didn’t hear him approach. When I spin in my chair, he’s standing right there, barely two feet away.
“What?” I manage.
“Your screen is off.”
I glance back. He’s right. The monitor has gone to sleep, displaying nothing but black. I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at it.
“I was thinking,” I explain weakly.
“About what?”
You. Your forearms. Your stomach. The way you look when you’re not buttoned up and perfect.
“Work stuff.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re flushed.”
“The heating must have kicked on.”
“It’s thermostat-controlled. Sixty-eight degrees, same as always.”
Damn his attention to detail.
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I stand too quickly, and the movement brings me closer to him instead of farther away. Close enough to see the stubble shadowing his jaw. Close enough that his cologne wraps around me.
I should step back, create distance, and reassert the boundaries we both agreed to.
But my feet don’t move.
“Something’s bothering you,” he notes.
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
I force myself to meet his eyes, which turns out to be a huge mistake. His gaze pins me in place, searching my face for answers I refuse to give.
“There,” I say. “I’m looking.”
“Your breathing just changed.”
“It did not.”
“It did. And your pulse.” He reaches out and brushes his thumb against the side of my neck, featherlight. “Your pulse is racing.”
I jerk away from his touch. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t… notice things.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I always notice things. Especially when it comes to you.” His voice drops lower as he inches closer. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
