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He was suddenly gripping the beer too tightly. Partly because he was staring at that lush mouth again. But mostly because he agreed with her. Work wasn’t the problem. But he was just going to stay silent on that subject because opening that particular can of worms sounded like a really dumb idea. Pleasurable as hell, maybe, but destined for disaster.
Leah waited for a beat—giving him space to answer, presumably—then tilted her head slightly, the expression in those fascinating eyes suddenly all challenge. “So I guess the question is, are we going to deal with the problem or pretend it doesn’t exist?”
In the interests of sanity, he had to vote for the latter. “What problem?”
She sighed. “Seriously? That’s how you want to play it?” She set her beer on the step. The big hoops in her ears were dancing when she straightened again and put her hands on her hips, staring at him.
She’d liked it when he’d kissed her just behind her ears. Had trembled and sighed when his tongue had touched her skin. Soft. It had tasted of salt and warmth and something that was all Leah. His mouth dried.
Her eyes were locked on his. She licked her lips. He swayed toward her, unable to resist the lure of that mouth any longer.
“There!” she said.
He almost dropped his beer as he jerked back. “What?”
“That look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Total lie.
“I hope you’re not one of those celebrities who likes poker,” she said. “Because you are a terrible liar.”
He took another step back, hoping space might equal sanity. “Did you hit your head on the way over?”
“Nope. And neither did you, so why don’t we talk about it?”
She wasn’t going to give up. Wasn’t going to go away. Trouble was, he was fairly certain his inappropriate memories weren’t going anywhere either. He sighed. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“It’s a better one than continuing to act like morons around each other in the studio.”
He shrugged. “Maybe we’ll just get used to it. It might fade away.”
If there’d been a picture in the dictionary next to the word “skeptical,” it would have shown Leah’s face.
“So you’re suggesting I ignore the fact that every time you come close to me, I remember that I know what you look like naked. How you taste? How it felt when you?—”
“Leah, don’t.” God. She was going to kill him.
“You know, I believe in just dealing with things,” she said. “Get it all out on the table.”
They’d done it on the table. He’d laid her down and spread her legs and?—
He swallowed. Looked up. She was blushing. She remembered too. Fuck.
“Okay, bad choice of words,” she said, and her voice was ever so slightly too high and breathless. But she didn’t falter. “I believe in being honest. So, yes, I remember those things.”
Her gaze dropped to his crotch. Where there was no hiding just how right she was about the clarity of his memories. “Looks like you do too.”
If he gripped the beer any tighter, the damn bottle was going to shatter. He should put it down. But that would mean bending closer to Leah. He didn’t want to get any closer. That would be stupid. Suicidal even. “What if I do?”
“Well, then, we need to do something about it.”
“I hear cold showers are good.”
“Overrated.”
“The ocean is cold. Early morning swims?”
“You turn into a morning person? I find that hard to believe.”
