Her fingers latch on to my jaw. “Which supermodel is he after?” she croons.
I smell the smoky smell of the cognac on her mouth. Let her tilt my head this way and that.
“That one looks nice, malleable.” She nods to a svelte woman in a boring black dress.
“Shitty way to describe her. Maybe she rescues hamsters.”
“Please. I know women aren’t people to guys like you—they’re like expensive pets. Ooh, green dress, five o’clock? That’s someone you can parade on your arm.” She jerks her chin.
I’m mesmerized.
I’m not looking at the sea of women. I’m looking at her.
“Or silver dress? Seems just your style.”
“Does she have a rack like yours?”
Winnie glances up at me.
“If not, then I don’t want it.”
“Why do you have to be so difficult?” She tilts her chin up, daring me, and something in me pulls hard against its leash. I shouldn’t touch her again, shouldn’t let her touch me—but I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m close enough that I can count the freckles along her collarbone, catch that faint scent of sugar and coffee that clings to her no matter how late it gets. I want to grab her jaw, tilt her head up, and find out what kind of sound she makes when she finally stops talking back.
I smirk at her, keeping my composure.
Even though I’ve been stalking her the last month, this is the closest I’ve ever been to Winnie. I’ve been really good, really in control, not actually going into the house while she’s sleeping. Not staring into her window when she’s showering, or changing, or rubbing moisturizer all over her curves.
But now?
It’s going to be hard to keep my hands off her.
To maintain those boundaries for my sanity… and her safety.
9
WINNIE
Vvvrrrrrrrrrrr!
“What the hell—” After snorting awake, I lean over tocheck my phone on my nightstand for the time—and promptly fall off the couch.
“Ow!”
The floor vibrates with the sound from the vacuum.
Limping, I stumble around in the dark, locate my phone, stub my toe on my couch, see that it is indeed ass o’clock in the morning, throw the door open, and confront my mom.
Yes, I have a couch in my bedroom, because it’s my dream bedroom that I worked hard for and was not planning on sharing with anyone, least of all my sister, who is sprawled sound asleep in my bed with my dog.
I’m regressing. This is regression.
“Mom!Mooom!” I holler over the noise of the vacuum.
“Oh, well, look who’s awake,” Mom says by way of greeting.
“It’s seven in the morning.”
“I’ve been up since five a.m.” Mom sniffs. “Some of us weren’t out partying late.”
