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“Next time, you should throw your shoes at them.” Gio’s smile swings in my direction, and darn it, if it doesn’t rival the sunset. I squint, it’s so stupidly brilliant.

“I can’t throw shoes at just anyone. They’re for you. And besides, I’m running out of shoes.” I’m thankful when we shift into banter mode.

He chuckles. The sound is simultaneously smooth and rough, like biting into raw honeycomb. I melt into the mattress. If I’m not careful, I’ll drip over the edge and land in a puddle at his feet.

My secret crush is growing right before my eyes. Make it stop! With my free hand, I cling to the sheets to remain planted in reality.

This day was a fluke. Be careful!

“I’ll buy you all the shoes you want. I’ve got to make sure you’re safe,” he says, making things worse.

“An arsenal of shoes? You really do enjoy the torture.” I laugh.

“It would be torture if you ever hit your target.” He chuckles.

I jab my knee into his thigh, and though it barely registers, he plays along and keels over in pain. It would take more than that to affect his terrifying wall of muscle.

Beautiful, hard, rippling, almost-an-enemy muscle.

Gio slips past my defenses too easily. It’s an utter crisis.

Another long silence passes between us. When it becomes too much, I clear my throat. Gio does the same, and our gazes dart in opposite directions before ricocheting back. We awkwardly giggle, and my face warms.

What in the heck is happening?

I focus on tugging the covers closer to my chin. Maybe I should pull them over my head? It might be the only way I can stop ogling him. Good grief.

“I’d love to sit and chat about all the ways you will pummel me with your murder shoes, but I have to work. Will you be okay?”

His thumb brushes over my wrist once. I think it’s an accident until he does it again. By the fourth time, I hold my breath because he must feel my frantic pulse fluttering beneath his fingertip. It’s beating faster than hummingbird wings.

I nod, my eyes glazing over.

A very large and annoying part of me wants to tell him that I’d be better if he stayed. But if he did, I might be tempted to kiss him in a non-hostile way, the opposite of our first fiery kiss.

I’m shooting for zero kisses from Gio moving forward. Still, I can’t help but lick my lips at the thought of another wrestling match over chocolate-coconut cookies.

“Get some rest.” Gio squeezes my hand like he doesn’t want to let go, but when I yawn, he stands.

Before he exits my sheet-walled cubicle, he turns to ask, “Can you leave the bedroom door open tonight? I don’t think my aching body can take another night on the couch.” His hands press into his lower back, and he stretches in a way that forces his pecs to stretch wider. His buttocks clench.

“I make no promises,” I say because, well, I may need to lock the door. It might be my only hope of survival. As it is, I’m two seconds from exploding all over this room.

My cherry bomb is ticking.

“I’ll take whatever you give me.” He waggles his brows like he always does.

“I’ll be waiting, shoe in hand,” I say, teasing because, oh God, I can’t help myself.

“Good girl.” He smirks before dipping behind the curtain and shutting the bedroom door.

Inside, I kick my feet and scream. Outwardly, I’m staring at the ceiling with my mouth hanging open, wondering what the hell just happened.

Good girl? He’ll take whatever I give him? He needs to protect me? He wants to buy me shoes? Check. Check. Check.

I groan low out of sexual frustration, annoyance, and disgust as I ruminate on his words, his tender touches, his sweet concern, and the multitude of innuendos tucked into every tiny interaction.

He’s torturing me in new ways. It’s more sinister than stealing rental cars because he’s affecting me on a physiological level. I’m convinced he’s doing this on purpose. This niceness slash hotness is part of his retaliation.