My foot rolls on top of the mop handle.
Then she bends until her head is centimeters from my lap, her ass in the air, the hem of her shirt riding up just enough that my pulse stutters.
And I may hate everything about her, but I’m not fuckingdead.
A low, traitorous heat punches through my gut.
Groaning, I scrub both hands through my hair like I can physically rake the image of her out of my skull. “Goddamn, you’re difficult.”
“And you’re an emotionally stunted douchebag.”
I frown.
She stands back up and tosses the mop between her hands. “What? I thought we were listing off personality traits.”
“For fuck’s sake, Genevieve. Just… Care about yourself enough to not get snatched up or killed, okay?”
“Careful, Champ, almost sounds like you’re worried about me.”
And I hear it, too, truthfully, and I hate that she’s misconstruing it as anything other than a forced protection on my part.
I reach out, grab the mop, and tug.
She doesn’t let go, so when I pull, she flies into me, her body slamming against mine. I rise with the motion, twisting her and pinning her back to my chest.
One hand rips the mop from her grip and the other wraps around her throat. Not tight. Just enough to hold her still.
It takes a second to register what I’ve done. That every inch of her is pressed to every inch of me, heat locked between us like a fuse waiting for a flame.
She’s breathing hard, the silence pressing in.
“See?” I rasp. “Less than a second. That mop was more of a threat to you than to me.”
She swallows and her pulse skitters beneath my palm.
I ease my grip from her throat, but I don’t move. Instead, like an absolute fucking idiot, I keep my body right up against hers.
“Anger makes you predictable,” I say. “So does panic. Tools don’t mean shit if you don’t know how to keep your emotions in check.”
She nods and I finally release her, flexing my fingers after I do.
“Next time, don’t wander around alone.”
I reach down, grab the mop, and hand it back to her.
“Right. I’ll be sure to send you my itinerary.” She snatches it from me, pops her earbuds in, and then right before she’s about to disappear, she hesitates. “If you want to walk me to my apartment, I’ll be done in about twenty.”
Chapter 9
Genevieve
I round the corner of the Lye only to stop short.
Lance is there, leaning against the wall, one boot braced on the stone.
He stayed.
“You didn’t have to wait,” I say.
