Instead, I sit there, back straight, chin tipped just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on even as my pulse starts to race.
His eyes drag over me.
Slow.
Thorough.
From my hair, probably a mess from sleep, down to my bare legs tangled in his sheets.
Heat flares low in my stomach.
Traitor.
I suck in a breath, the moment stretching tight and electric between us, charged with a thousand things we’re not saying.
And at least half of them are dangerous.
Because yeah—a very large part of me would like to launch myself across this bed and climb him like a tree.
Ex-husband.
Not-ex-husband.
Whatever the hell he is.
Doesn’t matter because that is a bad idea.
A terrible idea.
A catastrophic, life-altering mistake of an idea.
Which is exactly why my body is leaning toward it like it’s inevitable.
Nope.
Not happening.
If I have to go dig the nail file I have in my purse to gouge my own eyes out just to remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible plan, I will.
Because one thing I know?
Me and Benji?
That road ends in heartbreak.
Again.
“Didn’t mean to wake you, Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, low, like he just dragged it out of his chest. “Just needed a clean shirt.”
Sweetheart.
The word hits me right in the sternum.
I swallow hard.
“Yeah,” I manage. “No problem.”
My voice sounds thin.
