Page 57

“Well, then you should probably cancel it,” he suggested.

“You are not picking up my mother.”

He stopped. I didn't. I nearly collided with his back, and when he turned, my hands landed against his chest.

His hands caught my waist. Again. We really needed to stop doing that. Or start doing something about it. Preferably the second option.

My palms were spread against solid muscle, and I could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt.

His eyes dropped to my lips. I licked them. Which was an incredibly stupid thing to do.

His nostrils flared.

My pulse skipped.

“What was my one condition for this agreement?” he asked.

There had been a condition?

I was sure there had.

I vaguely remembered a conversation involving rules and boundaries and pretending to be a couple.

Unfortunately, every functioning brain cell I possessed had relocated south of my waist.

“Um…”

His thumbs shifted against my hips. Barely. It was enough.

“You said…”

He leaned closer. Oh, God. He was going to kiss me.

I closed my eyes. Because apparently, I was a woman who made excellent decisions. I tilted my face up.

Waited. Anticipated the feeling of his lips on mine. I felt them, but not on my mouth, they brushed the curve of my ear instead.

“If we do this,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “we do it my way.”

A shiver raced down my spine. His warm breath feathered over my neck, and I forgot how lungs worked. Again.

At this rate, I was going to need supplemental oxygen.

Then he stepped away. Just like that. The man was a menace. A six-foot-something, broad-shouldered, dangerously attractive menace.

He walked into the bedroom and pulled back the covers on the king-sized bed.

“Fresh towels are in the bathroom. There's an extra toothbrush in the top drawer if you need one.”

I stood in the doorway, trying to remember why I'd followed him.

Right.

My mother.

The airport.

His stupid condition.