He shakes his head, a flirty smile creeping up his implausibly handsome face. “Still. It’s criminal.”
Laurel was very right about how hot people attract otherhot people. They must feel more comfortable with each other, the same way celebrities have an easier time making friends with other celebrities.
From the moment we walked into the apartment behind the canoe outfitter, Ethan had the role of “most interesting man in the room” all wrapped up. For the past hour, he’s been trapped in a corner of astonishingly attractive humans, comparing adventures on the road.
Still, no matter where I am, I feel his attention on me, tugging me back into his orbit like I’m a rogue planet.
“Do you climb?” Russell’s question breaks into my consciousness and I realize I haven’t been listening to him.
“Climb?” I stall for time.
A hand snakes around my waist, and I turn my head to find Ethan. What does it say about me that my impulse is to curl into him like a cat?
“Charley’s not a big fan of heights.” Ethan’s baritone voice vibrates against the shell of my ear. “Unless she’s taking a photo.”
“Are you a photographer like Harlow?” Russell asks. His eyes clock Ethan’s possessive hand on my body—mine do too—and in a second, I watch myself plummet fromthe object of Russell’s desirestosuspected cousin. “What’s Harlow’s deal?” he inquires, chomping on a chip and eyeing Harlow, who’s casually leaning against the frame of the open back door and looking arrestingly gorgeous while doing it.
I tilt my head in her direction, my heart hammering against my ribs from Ethan’s prolonged physical proximity. “Harlow? Oh, she’s very available.”
What is this arm about?
“Very, you say?” He brushes the chip grease off his hands and does a practiced hair ruffle that gives him the perfectly unkempt look of a wilderness catalog model. “Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” I barely get out around the lump in my throat.
Ethan gives him a wave as he walks away. His thumb hooks into my belt loop and tugs me closer to him. Something raw and hot flips in my belly. The way his eyes cling to me is new and unfamiliar territory.
“You weren’t enjoying that conversation, were you?” he asks, concern swimming at the edges of his face. “You had that look in your eyes. Like when strangers pitch inventions at you,Shark Tankstyle.”
Ah, the joys of being the only patent attorney at a summer barbecue.
“You weren’t interrupting anything.” As if I couldthinkwith him touching me like this, all greedy and possessive.
His eyes search my face and must find something he likes, because he rewards me with a perfect smile that sends crinkles all the way into his eyes. God, I love that smile. The sight of it crashes into my chest like a hot rock.
“Good. How was your trek from camp with the girls? Did you point out the spot where we…you know…” He sits up on the kitchen counter, his hand dragging along my abdomen every step of the way. “Cliff jumped?”
His question is a provocation. He wants me to think about the kiss. The way he was pressed against me. How feral I was. How feral I still am. He curls his fingers around my hips, and I all but turn to goo.
This whole thing between us reeks of regrettable ideas, but that just makes it more enticing somehow. I don’t usuallyregret things. Regrets require taking chances. But we’ve been teasing each other mercilessly for years. Something was bound to happen eventually.
I step forward between his legs, goading.I can go toe to toe with you, the movement suggests. I tilt my chin up, luxuriating in the way his jaw tightens at my unexpected advance into his territory.
“I didn’t,” I finally respond. “Laurel is in a highly suggestible state, and I’m not about to give her any new, reckless ideas. Accomplice liability and all that.” It’s so stuffy in this house packed with bodies. The walls are sweating.
“Accomplice liability, huh? Is it exhausting, the way your lawyer brain never shuts off?”
“This brain is how I earn thealmostbig bucks.”
His head moves side to side, achingly slow. “God, I would kill to see you in action. I bet you’re incredible.” The word buzzes down my skin.Incredible.
This is how he gets, I have to remind myself. I’ve seen it before. When he’s in front of a woman, he can’t help but lay it on thick. He makes them dream it’s real, that he wants itallwith them, but in the end, he always drives away.
“So are we finally going to do something about this or what?” he asks, pointing between us.
“Do something about the way we’re running dangerously low on beverages?” I deflect. “You should’ve let me buyeven moreGatorade. It’s yet another thing I was right about.”
His grin widens. “Charlotte Beekman is always right. I have that tattooed on my rib.”
