Chapter 26
Rowe
“What wasthatback there?”
“What waswhat?” Pane asks, acting like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, when I know for a fact he knows damn well what I’m referring to.
He’s stalking away from the party, toward the gazebo, and I’m hot on his heels. “No open shirts? Why did you say that to Donner? He wants to help.”
Pane whirls around, stops. Taps his fingers against his belt. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Unbuttoned shirts are a safety hazard.”
“Asafetyhazard.”
“That’s right. Nails can get caught in them. You wind up hammering yourself to a board. Next thing you know, you’re decapitated.”
Is he joking?“Are you even listening to yourself right now? We’re in desperate need of making our deadline, and you’re worried about a man with an open shirt.”
He flings a hand back toward our guests. “Did you even seehowopen it was? Wait, what am I saying? Of course you did. You were staring at his chest.”
My jaw drops. “I was not staring at Donner’s chest. I mean, I may have noticed it because I’m pretty sure he oils his pecs, but I was not ‘staring.’”
“See? Youwerestaring. How can I take you anywhere?”
What is going on? Have I fallen into a different dimension?
Pane studies me, his stupidly handsome face all hard, scowled lines.
I squint at him. “Are you ... are youjealous? Of Donner? A man who clearly smokes marijuana every night and drums while standing in a circle of naked women?”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Oh, Icannotwith you right now.” He stares at me, a look of disgust on his face. “Donner wants to help you—helpus. That’s what he’s interested in. Do you think I’m interested in him? So that you know, he’s not my type.”
Pane saunters up to me and stares down into my eyes. Emotion flickers across his face—pain, longing. My heart knots up.
“Whoisyour type?” he whispers.
You,I want to say. No, I don’t want tosayit. I want toscream it. I want to scream,You, Pane, are my type. You are the grunty, broody, sometimes-likable man I’ve been dreaming of.
But I just can’t do it. Kissing him pushed too many buttons inside me. It made me think too much. Made mefeeltoo much. Made mewanttoo much.
If I take one more emotional step forward, I’ll be lost.
“Who is my type?” I repeat his question, sounding robotic even to myself.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Rowe, look, I know things have been weird between us since—”
“Then don’t make them be weird.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Don’t make them weird.” My heart clogs up my throat. My body throbs just thinking about that kiss, how my fingers tangled in his hair,how his tongue swept into my mouth, making me moan. There was nothing weird about it. Everything about it was right.
He takes a step forward, blocking the setting sun so that all I see is him. My stomach quivers.
When he speaks, his voice is earnest, emotional. “Don’t push me away. Let me in.”
He’s asking me to do this, to put down my guard, to stop running from him every time I see him. Granted, I’m not feeling like running right now. It’s the beer, for sure. I’m thinking of how silky his hair is, how soft and demanding his lips are.
