“No, Luna, you’re improvising.” His voice dipped lower. “Again.”
“I am not improvising,” I replied, refusing to react to the nickname he’d given me.
Luna.
“You absolutely are.”
His long, blue-tinted arm reached around me suddenly, broad hand bracing against the desk beside my keyboard as he leaned over my shoulder.
My brain promptly stopped functioning.
His chest brushed my back for half a second.
Half.
A.
Second.
And my entire nervous system caught fire.
“This number,” he said, tapping the screen. “Three decimal points off.”
“Oh my gods,” I groaned dramatically, dropping my forehead onto the desk. “This is torture.”
“You are so dramatic.”
“I am overwhelmed.”
“You are lazy.”
I lifted my head to glare at him.
Big mistake.
Because he was right there.
Close.
Too close.
His laser like focus was on me and I squirmed in my seat.
Oh wow.
How was it even legal for him to look like that?
His skin still startled me sometimes—not because it was blue, though objectively that should have been the most distracting thing about him—but because it somehow made him more beautiful instead of strange.
Like moonlit marble.
That was the only comparison my brain ever landed on.
Like some ancient sculptor had carved a celestial gargoyle from living stone and then cruelly given it eyes capable of reducing women to complete idiots.
His inky black hair was streaked with cerulean. The front was long, shaggy, but the back stopped before it touched his shoulders.
It looked thick and lush tonight, spilling across his forehead in soft waves that contrasted sharply with the harsh perfection of his features.
