I didn’t.
His fingers wrapped lightly around my wrist, careful and warm, and he lifted my hand between us with the same slow precision he used for everything. Like he was giving me three separate chances to stop him. Like the choice mattered more than the impulse.
My pulse hit hard beneath his thumb.
His eyes stayed on mine as he lowered his mouth to my hand. The first touch of his tongue against my thumb was soft. Barely there. A warm, deliberate sweep over the sticky glaze that sent every nerve in my body straight into free fall. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t make it playful. Didn’t make it accidental. He held my wrist like something fragile and watched my face like my reaction was the only answer he cared about.
The kitchen went impossibly quiet around us. When he lifted his head, his thumb was still pressed over my pulse.
I forgot how to breathe like a normal person. “You’re doing it again,” I whispered.
His eyes darkened, and that slow, devastating smile cut across his mouth with so much intent my knees almost forgot their purpose. “I know.”
The words landed low and rough between us, less apology than confession.
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
Cade’s gaze dropped there for one dangerous second before coming back to my eyes. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t take another inch. He just stayed there, holding my wrist, letting me feel every bit of restraint in his body like a second touch.
“That vibe?” he murmured.
My throat worked around absolutely nothing. I should have reminded him that this was for school and potatoes and Sunday dinner and definitely not whatever insane thing had just happened in my kitchen.
Instead, I stood there with my pulse beating against his thumb and every inch of me aware that Cade Mercer had not just crossed a line.
He had walked right up to it. Looked me dead in the eyes. And waited to see if I would step closer.
It should not have felt like anything but it felt like everything.
My pulse hit hard against my throat. “Very heroic.”
His thumb rested against the inside of my wrist for one extra second, right over the frantic beat of my pulse. His eyes lifted to mine, and the faintest smile touched his mouth. “Your standards are low.”
“Apparently.”
The word came out quieter than I meant it to.
His gaze sharpened, but he still didn’t move closer. He let go first, stepping back just enough for the air to return, and somehow that restraint made the heat worse instead of better.
I turned away under the very mature pretense of checking my camera bag. “Back to the project.”
“Right,” he said behind me, voice still slightly rough. “The reason I’m here.”
“For school,” I said quickly.
“Of course.”
He came back into the living room and sat with a nonchalance I could not muster if I had tried.
“So, what else?”
I placed the containers on my table and brushed my hands down my shorts. “Human-interest stories only work if the audience feels like they’re being trusted with something, not sold something. I don’t want to make you look perfect. I don’t even think perfect is interesting.”
Before he could respond, my phone buzzed again. Charm’s name flashed on the screen.
Charm: Is he there?
Charm: Did he eat the cronuts?
