And I want to wholeheartedly believe him.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what to do with that.
I should step back.
I should put space between us.
I should laugh off his words or change the subject or do literally anything that puts my walls back where they belong.
But I don’t do any of those things.
I don’t move at all and worse, I don’t want to.
My fingers are curled loosely in the fabric of his henley, and when I realize it, I start to let go, but he shifts slightly, and the motion makes my hand slide against his chest. I freeze because instead of pulling away, my thumb brushes across the seam of the fabric like it belongs there.
Likehebelongs there.
Heat rushes through me, sharp and startling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I clear my throat, forcing my hand to drop back to my side, my heart racing harder now for an entirely different reason.
This is dangerous.
Not because Shepherd Haynes is unsafe.
But because he isn’t.
And that’s infinitely worse.
11
SHEPHERD
My phone rings at 8:12 a.m. which means it’s either an emergency or Harper Meers, my agent.
Or it’s my mother.
“Morning,” I answer, still staring at the ceiling.
“You’re trending,” Harper says without preamble.
“Well, good morning to you too, Meers. Why doesn’t that sound positive?”
“Happy to report it’s neutral for now,” she tells me. “Which is better than negative.”
I sit up, smoothing my hand down my face. “What did I do now?”
She chuckles on the other end of the line. “Apparently, you smiled.”
I blink. “What?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“Who is saying?”
“The internet.”
