I arched my back, feeling exasperated at how quickly I was ready for him again. "I can’t."
He nipped at my neck. "Why not?"
"Gotta win. Kick your ass." I gasped as he tugged on my earlobe with his teeth.
John licked the side of my neck, slipping a hand beneath the shirt I was wearing.
"I...really...gotta...oh, shit." Words disappeared into a cloud of want as he nudged my legs apart and lowered himself between them. My fingers found purchase in his silken hair.
"We're compromising the mission," I continued, trying to keep my voice steady. Trying and failing. "We don’t want to forget that we loathe each other." I didn’t want to go. Not one bit. Even if every fiber of my being shouted at me to run.
"Right. I loathe you, so, so much." John’s expression was serious, but his pupils were blown wide.
"Right." I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.
I wrapped my legs around him and spun him onto his back. He let out a delighted laugh, catching me off guard. How playful the stern, fancy John Kater could be. Now it was my turn to cover his mouth. He nipped at my fingertips, and warning bells rang in my head. I needed to leave, now. Because this version of him—his wild smile, the crinkly corners of his eyes, the messy hair, and unguarded laughs—this man could ruin me.
I pulled my hands free. "Let’s get to work."
He let his head fall back onto the pillow, dark curls spilling around him. He swallowed. "Right."
I stepped off him, pointedly ignoring the bulge in his boxers as I gathered my things.
"Keep the shirt," he said when I found my top.
I looked over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow before lifting the hem of his shirt off me. His eyes darkened as he studied the lines on my back, the curve of my ass, the ink contouring my waist.
"Never doing what you're told."
The sheet slipped down his back, over his legs. He was still bare. Red marks spanned like trophies on his skin—marks my nails had left. I wished to trace them now, make them permanent.
I sucked in a breath. When he looked up at the sound, I pretended I had received a message. While I typed a good morning to Otis, the problem dawned on me. Slid into my brain on clever tentacles, growing bigger until it squeezed aside deadlines, Otis, and even the hunger I had felt just moments ago. Once it found hold, there was nothing left butit.
It took hold of me, seized me entirely, and shook me to my core. It was a revelation so big there was no going back from here.
I. Had. Feelings. For. John.
Not the usual feelings I had grown accustomed to—like wanting to strangle him, or throw my coffee in his face, or replace his toothpaste with hemorrhoid cream. Or even the occasional stupendous lusty moment where I wondered how his biceps would fit in my hands, or how the place just beneath his ear smelled if I dragged my nose along his neck.
No. These were real feelings.
No, this feeling wasn’t something fleeting—it was the kind of thing that could ruin lives. Talk about compromising the mission.
By the time I left his room, thankfully unseen, and took a shower, I had gathered my thoughts. We had an agreement: it would end with the competition. There was no way around it. No Nora and John after all of this. So what if I felt more than I had planned to?
Feelings fade. They always do. I’d get over it eventually.
We’d mostly managed to keep our hands off each other—if you don’t count the spontaneous make-out session in the bathroom, the accidental brush of lips on a hike, or his hand creeping up my skirt under the dining table.
Okay, so we’d failed miserably, but no one but Jeremy seemed to notice. Jeremy, who swallowed his comments, blushed, and carried on with his day.
After we submitted our three chapters and handed off the finished books to Charlene, that was it. The working part of the competition was done. Now came the waiting. One week of waiting, to be exact. Seven days of biting nails. Seven days of wondering if we could keep Skye’s open for another year. Maybe even another month.
John drove me and Jeremy back to Middleton. I waved at my British competition as he slipped into Skye’s, planning to spend the day with Otis like it was second nature.
Then it was just me and John. And Mom.
I saw her too late. John and I had lingered a little too long. Me, leaning against the door of his fancy car, him with an elbow resting on the open window. Our fingers nearly brushing.
