She could still feel the weight of his hand at her waist. Still hear the rough edge in his voice when he whispered against her ear.
For one reckless second in that hallway, she’d honestly believed he was about to carry her straight into his bedroom and ruin them both.
The thought should have scared her more than it did.
Instead, her stomach tightened with a fresh pulse of desire.
She let out a low, frustrated laugh and dropped her hands.
This was exactly why she didn’t do things like this anymore.
Not blurred lines.
Not messy situations.
Not men who looked at her like they could strip her apart without even trying.
Denver had taught her better than that.
She’d spent years turning herself into someone polished and controlled. Someone who didn’t lose her footing over a voice, a touch, a pair of impossible Carolina-blue eyes.
Then Grant had put his hands on her, and every carefully built wall inside her had cracked straight down the center.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because underneath all the want and frustration and embarrassment was one simple, awful truth:
He mattered already.
Too much.
Too fast.
Izzy stood and crossed slowly to the mirror.
The silk still hung loose around her shoulders. A faint flush lingered high on her throat where his mouth had been.
Her fingers brushed the mark lightly.
His hands had known exactly where to touch her.
But worse—he’d looked at her like he already knew the parts she kept hidden.
The girl underneath all her carefully built composure.
That was the part that felt dangerous.
She swallowed hard and stepped away from the mirror before she could think about it too long.
Tomorrow there would be coffee on the porch. Caitlin laughing. Sunlight over the pastures. Normal things.
She needed to hold on to that.
Needed to remember this was temporary.
A week.
Maybe two.
