Page 80 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

His jaw tightens. “Katie.”

“Yes, Mikey?” I say sweetly.

He slows to a stop at a red light and turns his head toward me.

“I can be a lot of things to you,” he says. “Michael. Honey. Sweetheart. Babe. Jackass.” His eyes move over my face. “Stalker, apparently.”

I try not to laugh.

“But not Mikey.”

I tilt my head. “Why’s that?”

His gaze locks on mine. “Because that’s what my cousins call me.”

A pause.

“Not the woman I’m fucking.”

I roll my eyes, but the heat rises in my cheeks.

“We’re not fucking.”

“Yet,” he says.

The light turns green, and he looks back at the road, acting like nothing happened, pretending he didn’t send heat straight between my legs. I turn toward the window, pressing my lips together, but it doesn’t help. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Still want to talk about my childhood?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” I say, controlled. “I actually would appreciate it if we didn’t talk at all. Let’s just enjoy the scenery.”

He hums softly, but he’s watching me. His hand slides across the console and lands on my leg.

“Aw, Doll. Did I embarrass you?”

“Not exactly,” I say, keeping my eyes forward.

“I see,” he says.

His hand moves higher.

“I caused a totally different reaction, didn’t I?”

My fingers wrap around his wrist before he gets any farther, and I push his hand back down to my knee.

“This stays here.”

He lets me move him, but his mouth curves slightly. He’s not even a little convinced I’m unaffected. I keep my gaze on the road. I’m not giving him the satisfaction.

Chapter 31

Katie

Michael pulls into a parking spot and shuts the engine off, and for a second, everything goes quiet except for the faint tick of the car cooling. I don’t reach for the handle. I sit there, hands folded in my lap, staring straight ahead. I could get out. I always do everywhere else, but not with him. Because I already know, if I touch that door, he’s going to say something, so I wait. Sure enough, his door opens. A second later mine does too, and I slide out.

The second my feet hit the ground, I look up at the building. It’s the same as last week and the week before that. I come here every week. I know exactly what it looks like. There’s no getting used to it or building up some tolerance where it stops feeling so horrible. It sits there in my chest. I never get to put down.

I stand there looking at it, letting myself have that pause before I have to walk inside and pretend I’m okay with any of this. Michael doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t rush me, doesn’t touch me, and doesn’t try to fix it. He stays there, close enough that I know he’s there if I need him. That’s all I get. That’s all I want.