I narrowed my eyes at him, even as my chest did that stupid warming thing again. “You’re very confident for someone hiding behind a book.”
His thumb flattened against the page, marking his place. “I’m not hiding.”
“Mm-hmm.” I squinted at the cover. A dragon curled around a sword in the center, flames and storm clouds, and, unless I wasmistaken, a woman in armor who had absolutely no business having that much cleavage.
“Is that ... ?” I leaned forward, trying to make out the title. “Oh my god. Is that the one with the dragon riders and the horny queen?”
A beat of silence.
His jaw ticced. “It has dragons,” he said slowly, like that explained everything.
A bubble of laughter burst out of me before I could stop it. “Wes. That book is, like, ten percent battle scenes and ninety percent very creative use of castle walls.”
A faint flush touched his cheeks. “It was on a list,” he muttered. “Someone at PT said it was good.”
“Don’t get me wrong, itisgood. I read it in a day. But don’t kid yourself—you’re reading angst and smut disguised as fantasy,” I said, delighted. “I did not have that on my Wes Vaughn bingo card.”
He shifted, the faintest hint of embarrassment slipping under the gruff. “It’s well written.”
“It is.” I nodded solemnly. “Structure. World-building.Penetration.”
He choked on nothing, coughing once. “Jesus, Clara.”
“What?” I tried to look innocent. Failed. “I’m just saying, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a ‘pining warriors and morally gray queens’ kind of guy.”
His gaze snagged mine over the top of the book, something flickering there that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago. “You been thinking about what I’m into lately, Duchess?”
My throat went dry.
The kitchen flashed in my mind—his hand on my cheek, the millimeter of space between our mouths, the way my entire body had leaned toward him on instinct. Heat crept up the back of my neck.
“Absolutely not,” I said lightly, twisting the yarn tighter than I meant to around my finger.
The air between us shifted, going quiet in a different way. Not empty, but dense.
His eyes held mine, the edge of his glasses glinting, that forced neutrality slipping in the corners. He knew what I wasn’t saying. I knew what he wasn’t saying. The almost-kiss pressed against the edges of the room like a secret trying to get out.
My pussy fluttered at the thought of whatcouldhave happened.
I glanced back at my lap before I could drown in the look on his face. “So,” I said, wrestling the needles into something that vaguely resembled a stitch. “If you’re going to silently judge my tension, you could at least be useful and tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
“Besides abusing the yarn?” he said with a smirk.
I shot him a look.
His mouth twitched; then he set the book face down on his chest and tipped his head, studying my hands. The focus in his gaze made my pulse jump. It was the same look he probably used on blueprints and beams—calculating, precise, already fixing things in his mind before anyone else saw the problem.
“You have it in a chokehold,” he said. “Loosen your grip.”
One sculpted eyebrow rose higher. “My grip is fine.”
Red splotches crawled up his neck, and he cleared his throat. “You don’t need to white-knuckle it, that’s all. Let it slide a little.”
I snorted softly. “Story of my life.”
He huffed out a laugh that sounded way too close to pleased. “Try wrapping it ... here.”
He leaned forward, reaching out, and my brain didn’t process anything but the fact that his hand was moving toward mine, that the space between us was going to shrink again, that his fingers were going to be on my skin.
