"You absolutely have tells. When you're irritated, your left eye twitches. When you're lying, you look slightly to the right. And when you're thinking about—" she paused, glancing at him over her shoulder with a knowing smirk, "—other things, your pupils dilate."
He forced himself not to react, but her smirk widened. "Case in point."
She was going to destroy him. Not all at once. That would be too merciful. No, she was going to take him apart piece by piece, pulling at threads until the entire tapestry unraveled. And the worst part was, some treacherous part of him wanted her to.
He moved past her towards the refrigerator, maintaining a careful distance between them. His protein shake was supposed to be on the second shelf, precisely positioned, waiting for him?—
The shelf was empty.
He turned and found her watching him with a look of exaggerated innocence, her lips wrapped around the straw of his protein shake.
"What?" she asked, voice muffled. "It was just sitting there."
"That's mine."
"Wasyours. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, according to someone somewhere."
"Edie."
"Tarmek." She mimicked his warning tone again, that teasing lilt that made his blood pressure spike. "Relax. It's just a shake. I'll make you another one."
"I don't want another one. I want that one."
"Too late." She took a long, deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Her throat worked as she swallowed.
Something snapped. He moved before he could stop himself, crossing the kitchen in two strides. She barely had time to react before he was crowding her backward, herding her until her back hit the refrigerator with a soft thud.
The shake was still in her hand. Her eyes had gone wide—not afraid, but interested. Alert. Like a cat that had successfully baited a much larger predator and was curious to see what happened next.
"You did that on purpose," he said.
"Did what?"
"Stole my shake. Provoked me. Again."
"I have no idea what you're talking about." But her breathing had quickened. Her chest rose and fell faster, drawing his attention to the thin tank top that was absolutely not adequate coverage for this situation.
"You've been doing it all week."
"Doing what?"
"Touching me." He planted one hand against the refrigerator beside her head, boxing her in. "Brushing against me. Puttingyour feet in my lap while I'm trying to read game notes. Wearing my shirts. Smelling like?—"
He stopped himself. Barely.
"Smelling like what?" she whispered.
"Like you want me to lose control."
"Maybe I do."
The admission hung in the air between them. She wasn't retreating. She wasn't deflecting with humor or redirecting with chaos. She was just looking at him, those warm brown eyes holding steady, waiting.
"I can't—" he started.
"You can. You just won't." She lifted her chin defiantly. "There's a difference."
"You don't understand."
