I’m not sure why I do what I do next. Maybe I’m coming down from the adrenaline, maybe the exhaustion from this past week is finally hitting me, maybe I’ve been wondering all afternoon what the five-o’clock shadow on his face feels like, but I reach up and gently touch his cheek with my hand, letting it linger there.
It’s meant to be a thank-you, like aThank you for going through this with me, can I touch your face?kind of thank-you.
But when I feel Luke’s hand cover mine, his fingers wrapping around my palm, his intent gaze on me as he lifts my hand and brushes his lips against the inside of it, lighting up every nerve ending in my body, I realize I’ve made a huge mistake.
I pull away, jumping up out of my seat.
“Ready to go home?” I ask, the words coming out higher pitched than I mean them to.
I don’t look at Luke while I pack up my stuff, haphazardly shoving things into my bag, my hands feeling shaky.
Luke doesn’t say anything. He just sits there. But then slowly, he stands up and starts grabbing his things.
That was . . . stupid of me. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking—that’s the problem.
You idiot, Claire.
Chapter 24
PR Tip #50:Some things can’t be managed. They can only be felt.
“Actually, no,” Luke says.
I’ve got my computer bag on my shoulder, and I’m walking toward the door of the conference room. I made a beeline for it after touching his face like a moron. Who does that? The whole thing has got my heart pumping, my mind racing, and I just need to get out of this room.
I turn around to see Luke standing not far behind me, looking at me with something akin to determination. His jaw is set, his eyeslaser focused.
“No?” I ask.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not ready to go home,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
He drops his bag on the table and then takes a step toward me.
“What are we doing here, Claire?” he asks.
I close my eyes. “We’re going home,” I say, trying to deflect.
“No,” he says. “What was that back there?”
He points to where we were just sitting, the place where I lost my stupid mind. Why would I do that? Why?
“I . . . it . . . it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” he says, his eyes steady on mine.
I take a step back and bump into the wall behind me, his closeness making it hard to keep myself in check, making me wish for things I can’t have.
“I think it was much more than nothing,” he says.
“I promise, it wasn’t.”
His brow pinches. “Why do you keep fighting this?”
“Fighting what?”
He pushes his fingers through his hair. Why does it make him even more attractive? It’s not helping. “You’re so frustrating, Claire.”
