“Not tonight,” he said again. “Not because I don’t want to. Because I want to too much. Because if I take you tonight, I’m not letting you out of my bed until your car is fixed.”
“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.” I allowed myself a brief smile.
The comment made him growl a little. “But we wait.”
“Until when?”
“Until you’re sure.”
“I am sure.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not. You want this, you want me. But you still have doubts.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but I stopped. Because the truth was I wasn’t sure he was wrong. Had I gotten caught up in the moment? The way he’d touched me? It should have been frustrating. It was frustrating. But it was also the most honest thing anyone had ever said to me.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He kissed me, gentle this time. Like he was trying very hard not to ruin us before we even started.
“Now get out of the tub before I change my mind.” He handed me my t-shirt and leaned back against the edge of the hot tub, as if distance was the only thing keeping his control intact.
I tried hard not to look at the hard outline still very much there beneath the water.
I failed.
When I glanced back, his jaw tightened.
“Go,” he ordered.
It took everything in me not to turn and walk back into his arms.
***
The next morning was awkward in the best possible way.
We orbited each other in the kitchen, both pretending we hadn’t been half-naked in his hot tub the night before. He made coffee. I made toast. Our hands kept brushing. Our eyes kept meeting.
Then looking away. Then meeting again.
It was torture.
Rule #46: Pretending to be normal around a man who has touched your bare breasts will not work. Don’t bother trying.
I was making up rules faster than I could remember them.
“What’s the plan today?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Working on the sculpture again. Want to come?”
Did I want to spend another day watching him be unfairly attractive while wielding power tools, especially after last night?
“Yes, please.” Because clearly I was a masochist.
He took a sip of his coffee but said nothing. The expression in his eye said it all.
This time the drive to town was charged. At one point, we stopped at a red light, and his hand drifted to my thigh. Just rested there, his thumb moving against my skin. I didn’t move it. Why would I? It felt like he was claiming me, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be independent. I wanted to be his.
At the square, I tried to sit on the bench like a normal person. I really did. But every time he killed the chainsaw to step back and assess his work, his eyes found me. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them trying to relieve the ache that had set up permanent residence. Every time I did, his grip tightened on the chainsaw handle. Since I had his attention, I did what any red-blooded woman would. I leaned forward to stretch, letting my shirt gape open just slightly. He didn’t look away.
