Page 13 of Final Proposal

Can the man stop climbing the perfect meter?

With a look around and a rock back on my heels, I say, “I guess this is our bed for the night.”

“Seems that way. At least it’s not the floor. The bonus is it has a killer view of the light show going on outside.”

The couch is the same deep burgundy as the barstools, but despite its stiff appearance, when I sink down onto it, I’m surprised by how comfortable it is. I wiggle my butt to make a show of approval before stopping, leaning over, and whispering, “I’m wondering what’s wrong with this couch?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, a sigh falling from his lips as he sits. But the sigh falters when our hips touch due to the limited space of the settee’s cushion.

I have a flustered second where I wonder why I’m even flustered. He’s a man. I’m a woman. We have a place to sit for the night. Our hips touching shouldn’t be a big deal.

And yet . . . I’m suddenly a little flushed and desperately thinking about anything other than the heat of his hip against mine.

It’s hot in here.

Is it hot in here?

I work a swallow down my throat. It’s definitely hot in here.

Movement. I need to . . . move so I don’t also think about this man’s firm, muscular thigh against mine. I shift so my back is against the arm of the couch, my knee is bent and touching his thigh so that I’m facing him.

Shin-to-thigh contact is way better than hip-to-hip contact.

Of course, that gets me thinking that there are way better contacts than just hip to hip—pelvis to pelvis, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Stop it, Elle.

I roll my eyes and when I look up, I’m met by a bemused lift of his eyebrow as if to say he sees I’m flushed and knows exactly what I’m thinking.

To say the image of his bare chest and abdomen doesn’t flash through my mind would be a gross understatement.

So I ramble.

“What were we talking about?” I ask, busying my hands.

“Our bed for the night.”

“Yes. The seat. The settee. This spot right here.” I pat the back of it with my hand. “The question is, why had no one taken this spot yet? It’s prime real estate. The windows. A table to prop our feet on. No drunk, snoring men like over on the other side of the room. I mean”—I place my hand on his forearm out of habit. Skin. Touching. Again. And all but yelp as I pull it back just as quickly as I touched him—“clearly there’s a sign somewhere that says it’s been reserved for Chris Hemsworth.”

He levels me with a droll look, but the corners of his mouth turn up. He may have left his grumpiness aside, but he’s still quiet. Still troubled.

“Oh, is that what that sign said that I crumpled up when I came over here but didn’t read?”

“Of course, it is.” I pretend to huff. “I’m sure your people reached out to their people and set this all up.”

He smiles again, and it’s worth the silliness just to see it. As a reward, I pick up his bottle of whiskey and pour more into his glass without asking. He nods and takes a sip, his gaze settling on his hands wrapped around his glass.

Despite his discarded grumpy shirt and the smile he gave me, it’s clear his fight is weighing heavily on him.

“I’m sorry about your brothers. I’m sure whatever you fought about was valid and real and, at some point, will work itself out.”

He nods, but it’s not convincing. “Perhaps.”

“For what it’s worth, I work with my brothers too.”

“The start of that sentence tells me there is a story to tell.”

“Meh.” I shrug. “It’s partially my company, but I don’t feel like it is. You see, I own twenty-five percent of the business like my two stepbrothers and stepfather do, but because I have a vagina—” He coughs over his drink, and I just look at him with a face of innocence. “What?”

“Well, it’s a good thing you have one. A vagi . . . whatever. I’d hate to think I’d be this attracted to someone if they didn’t . . .” He laughs and his cheeks turn pink. It’s adorable and more than flattering to think he finds me attractive. “I just . . . let’s just say it’s my turn to stick my foot in my mouth.”