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Cloves and cedarwood, like a toasty fire in a winter ski lodge.
Definitely not that.
His head cocks to the side, and for a moment, a boyish wonder passes through his ever-changing hazels. Gold-flecked and rimmed in hunter green. Alluring. But I’m not a novice at staring at counterfeit charm. It’s prime currency in my world. Feigned intrigue to draw others in. I’m not biting.
“This you?” he asks.
That’s unexpected. I have no idea what the hell he means and yet it feels intensely personal for some reason. Like he’s searching too deep. Seeing too much. Penetrating.
I brush that away, knowing he’s incapable of such depth, but my voice betrays vulnerability anyway. “What?”
As he leans down, his rosy lips come dangerously close to grazing my ear, but like the rest of him, he maintains a full half inch of distance. He forgoes an explanation of his bizarre query in favor of another. “Nervous, dollface?”
While I’m not fond of any of the stupid nicknames he assigns me, that low, husky, thundering rasp is … so … captivating.
Shit. It might be him. Maybe he is the cause of my vitals going haywire.
Could be. Possibly.
Of course he is. Damn traitorous body.
God, I hate him. I hate what he does to me, that I think about him. That he’s a beautiful shell of haughty ego and nothing more, aside from a desire taunting me. I’m so over empty fuckboys.
No distractions. I’m getting serious with my life. It’s time.
So, I ignore my hammering heartbeat and the peculiar urge to dust those dirty-blond locks off his forehead—tangling my fingers inside the silky, mussed strands—and straighten my shoulders to refute his gibe regarding me being nervous.
“About my sleepover?” I shake my head as my tongue darts out to wet my lips, relishing the way his eyes track the movement. “No. I’m never the one nervous, walking into a sleepover, Graves.”
With that, I strut away, swaying my ass just enough. He can eat his shallow heart out.
“Enjoy your night,” I call over my shoulder.
LIAM
My head is fifty shades of fucked up. I’m pouring a cup of coffee while gulping down stomach bile, sick about my morning meeting.
It’s less about the meeting and more about the girl upstairs. Christ, she fucks with me. That little dance she did with Ivy yesterday was nothing short of phenomenal.
Adorable. Carefree.
Seductive.
And a small glimpse of the rawness she so carefully masks for the rest of the world. I hate the polished and pretentious facade she wears. But that glimpse. I crave more from her. No idea why. Especially since when she opens her mouth, I want to strangle her.
I’m sour, thinking about her upstairs, sleeping on the air mattress in lieu of one of the dozen available beds—hers. Mine.
Fuck that.
Her shiny, dark hair was fanned out across the pillow, silky sleep shorts riding high on her round ass. Flawless olive skin and legs for days.
Yes, I peeked. Up at the crack of dawn for my workout and unable to resist the vision of her there, apricot-tinted sunlight trickling inside to showcase how every goddamn part of her shimmers. Regardless of how vexing she is, I’m still a man.
And Celeste Carver is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
If I avoid her like I did when she was here in July, this will go much smoother. Being that close to her last night was a mistake.
She smells like cashmere—not that I’m certain of cashmere’s smell, but I’d guess it’s soft and warm with notes of old money and sophistication. But there’s also an aroma of wildflowers on her skin and something I can’t name wafting from her hair. None of it matches. The spoiled Carver doll is an enigma, a myriad of contradictions. In my experience, that means only one thing. She’s not who she claims to be—hiding. Lying. Pretending.
