He says nothing.
He starts toward me with the kind of slow, steady patience that makes my nervous system want to file a complaint.
I step back before I can stop myself.
His eyes drop to my feet, then return to my face.
“Also,” I continue, because panic has taken control of my mouth and is now building a presentation, “we should probably discuss public behavior. Hand-holding. Arm-touching. Waist-touching, which you already seem very comfortable with. Maybe a maximum touch duration. I can make a chart.”
His mouth almost moves.
Almost.
I cling to that tiny almost-smile like a lifeboat.
“You make charts for touching?” he asks.
“I make charts for many things.”
“I know.”
That stops me long enough for my next step back to meet the hard edge of his desk.
My ass hits it with a little jolt that travels straight up my spine.
Jordan keeps coming until he is close enough for me to see the stubble along his jaw and the way his throat moves when he breathes. He does not touch me. He only places one hand on the desk beside my hip, then the other on my other side, trapping me between his body and the desk like he planned the whole thing from the first step.
Trapped.
Technically, I could move.
Emotionally, I have become furniture.
His body blocks the room. His forearms flex where his sleeves are rolled, and my brain makes an unhelpful little sound that I am grateful stays internal.
“Miss Mullen,” he says.
That formal voice should help.
It does not.
“Yes?”
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous.”
“I talk all the time.”
“More when you’re nervous.”
I swallow. “That sounds like something from my file.”
His eyes hold mine. “I don’t need a file for that.”
My chest warms in a way that annoys me.
“Then maybe you should stop making me nervous.”
“No.”
