Page 20 of Keep Me Close

He’s on the move, eating up the distance between us in three long strides, before the words are completely out of my mouth. His fingers slip beneath my chin, lifting it until there’s no other choice but to meet his steely gaze. Even though the contact is light, it sends a jolt straight through me.

“You’re not going back to California. You’re staying right here.”

My pulse pounds in my ears as I’m sucked into the deep blue of his eyes. When his thumb shifts against my jaw, I feel the reverberation of it all the way down to my fingers and toes.

“I’m not about to let you dump me before I’ve had the chance to show you what a kick-ass fake boyfriend I can be.”

Whatever tension had been building within me dissolves as an unexpected laugh slips free. “Kick-ass, huh?”

“Yup.”

Even though his lips tip upward at the corners, the look in his eyes never softens. I get the strange feeling he actually means it. As if the joke is there to make me smile but the promise beneath it is real.

“Trust me, you’re going to be impressed.”

Neither of us moves as the air grows heavy. For a split second, I wonder what it would feel like to be in a real relationship with him. To have him touch me because he actually wanted to.

Because I’m his.

The thought is so disturbing, I immediately shove it away.

It’s a relief when his hand drifts back to his side. Or it should be. Instead, the loss is almost devastating.

“Think about what you want for dinner tonight,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Any preferences?”

The shift in topic is so abrupt, it takes me a second to catch up. One moment his hand is on my face, and the next he’s asking what I want to eat when both of us seem to be struggling to breathe normally.

I swallow. “Nope. Anything’s fine.”

With a nod, he takes a step in retreat, putting some much-needed distance between us. “Go ahead and settle in. I’ll take care of the rest.”

As he walks out of the room, I have to remind myself this is fake. It’s just a way to get Dakota out of my life. Contrary to what he told my mother, Knox and I aren’t even friends.

So why does this feel like a situation that could easily spiral out of control if we’re not careful?

8

Knox

Here’s what I can tell you—Chinese wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was Cheyenne Benson sitting cross-legged on my couch in black leggings while a cropped sweater rides up every time she reaches for the carton of lo mein.

But here we are.

I told myself this would be awkward or maybe even strained. Instead, it’s oddly comfortable. And that’s a major problem. It shouldn’t feel so natural to have this woman curled up on my couch and stealing my food.

Except that’s exactly what it is. Like she’s the missing piece that fits seamlessly into my life. And if I let myself think about that for too long, I’m going to do something I shouldn’t.

She tucks her legs beneath her and laughs at something on the TV, chopsticks held midair over her food, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Every time she shifts, I’m inundated with the beachy scent that clings to her. I really hate just how much I want to inhale her like a drug. She hasn’t been here for a full two hours, and the situation is already messing with my head in ways I was unprepared for.

“You’re staring,” she says without glancing in my direction.

“What I’m doing is assessing the situation,” I lie.

“And what situation would that be?”

“Whether you’re the kind of woman who steals the last egg roll.”

She narrows her eyes before snatching it. “You snooze, you lose, McNichols.”