I typeConfirmedandhit send.
I set the phone down on the desk.
When I pick it up again, it’s five minutes past the start time for our session. I panic, shoving everything inside my bag andpower walking to the stairwell. I run up, feeling myself start to sweat. My face itches. Shit, I forgot to take my medication.
Before I open the door to the third floor, I pull out the Benadryl pills and swallow the right dose with my water. And then I take a deep Camdenth and try to calm my nerves.
I am two doors down from 3B and the glass wall on this side of the hallway is the one that lets you look into the room before you reach the door. Benson Reeve is Camdenthtaking. I know guys don’t like to hear that because it’s not masculine, but everything about him is beautiful. His hair falls on his forehead. He’s wearing a simple black shirt that enhances his face. I have to physically hold my Camdenth to slow my heart rate. It was one drunken kiss. He looks at the clock, and in doing so, our eyes catch. His expression softens with surprise. My heart sinks straight into my stomach when a smile touches his lips. He raises a hand to wave at me. I realize I’m standing outside the room, staring in.
I smile back and open the door.
Chapter 15
Benson
Mychestistight,and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. She’s smiling back, so that’s a good sign, right?
The clock shows that she’s made me wait eight minutes. To be honest, those eight minutes were torment. I thought she wasn’t going to show. I’ve been counting the seconds.
Her hair’s down, and she’s in a turtleneck. The smile makes my world flip upside. I don’t know what to do with that. There’s a sharp catch under my sternum when her perfume travels across the room. I sit up straighter without meaning to. I look at her, noticing that something’s off. I catch the faint mark running on her jawline and down her neck, covered by the turtleneck.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she says.
“You’re good,” I say back.Every minute deflated my ego, but hey, you’re here now.
“I was on the second floor and lost track of time.”
“No need to explain.”
She looks a little nervous, so I lean back in my chair to let her know I’m at ease. Even though I’m not, but for her, I try.
She walks to a chair across from me, sets her tote bag down, and pulls out her things. The pencil with her bite marks on it.
“Um,” she says quietly. “Where should we start?”
I answer, “Five three.”
“Okay.”
She flips to 5.3.
I have a quiet moment here. I could sayhow are you feeling.I could saycan we talk first.
I don’t. She doesn’t either.
She slides the textbook so it’s between us, opens it flat, and taps the page once with the pencil.
“Walk me through what you know.”
I pick up my pencil. “Okay.”
I walk her through 5.3. I get most of it right. She stops me on the second-to-last step and points to a line in the textbook, and I see what I missed. I redo it. She nods in approval.
“Good.”
We move to 5.4. She reads the problem aloud. I try not to look at her, focusing heavily on the work in front of me. My brain fails me, stealing a quick glance at her lips. Her voice is her tutoring voice. Not cold exactly, but not warm either. Her attention is entirely on the page, and all I can think about is the way she moved to the music in my living room on Friday.
I swallow, turning back to the text.
