Page 17 of Show Me

“Got it.” I do not got it. I am, in fact, extremely aware of the fact that he smells like seduction wrapped in a heap load of bad decisions.

He steps back a second later. Space. Air. Functioning brain cells returning slowly. Thank God.

I clear my throat, turning toward the wall like that didn’t just happen. “So….” I aim for casual and land somewhere just short of it. “Does Lindsey usually follow you around like that, or was that a special occasion?”

What in the fuck? What’s wrong with me? I stare at the line on the wall like I didn’t just say that out loud.

There’s a beat. Then…. “No.”

Good. “Right.” Shit. Heat flows up my neck. “I’m sorry, that’s not my business. She seemed…” I gesture vaguely with the pencil.

“Like she wanted something?” He finishes when I don’t. Unfortunately, I’d prefer to open the cabinet under the sink and crawl inside.

But he asked a question, and now, I need to answer it. I brace my shoulders. “Yeah.”

“She did.”

Of course she did. Girls like Lindsey don’t show up for leg presses. They show up for…. Him.

“Didn’t work.” His eyes are unreadable as they meet mine.

My grip squeezes the pencil. “Right.” My voice comes out somewhere between a crack and a screech. Jesus. This night keeps getting better. I clear my throat. “That’s probably a relief for her. Saves her from being disappointed in the end.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His jaw flexes as if he’s chewing on my words.

The words keep coming out of my mouth. The words that I wish I could swallow back down, but they’re already out there.

I shrug, meeting his eyes again. “I think people usually know what they’re getting with you.”

There’s no bite in it. No accusation. Just truth. As far as I’ve ever seen it. It’s not his fault that he’s a player. He’s never pretended to be anything else.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “Usually.”

“Alright.” I tap the pencil against the drywall. “Walk me through it.”

Because this- lines, steps, things I can fix- makes sense. Not him showing up four days late.

Not the way the room changed when he stepped behind me. Not the fact that I’m still thinking about it.

I square my shoulders, focusing on the line. “Where do I cut?”

And this time, when he moves closer, I shift my stance, giving me the room I need to remind myself that worshipping Xavier Cole never achieves anything.

Chapter Eight

Xavier

“Here.” I take a step closer because she’s still holding the pencil, staring at the line like it might change if she looks at it long enough.

“Not here.” I reach around her, taking her wrist lightly and guiding it down a fraction. “Here.”

Her hand stills under mine. Warm. Steady. Too steady.

“Small cut,” I add. “Just enough to see what you’re working with.”

She nods, but she doesn’t move. Neither do I.

For a second longer than necessary, my hand stays over hers, adjusting the angle. Her shoulder shifts back, just barely, and that’s where it crosses the line. Too close. Too easy to lean in. Too easy to forget why I don’t do this.