Page 109

His eyes go dark. “Yes, I am.”

I swallow. “Come in.”

He steps through, and the hallway gets smaller. I close the door behind him and turn, and he’s right there, closer than I expected, and I have to tilt my head up to look at him. I hate how much I like having to do that.

“This way,” I say. I turn and walk, and feel him behind me the whole way up the stairs. I don’t look back because I don’t trust my face.

When we reach my room, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small brown paper bag.

“Here,” he says.

I take it. I open it and inside are chocolate truffles, the expensive kind, the kind from the place on Main Street that costs four dollars apiece and is worth every cent.

I look at the chocolates. I look at him.

I giggle.

His face changes. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing. It’s just—” I press my lips together. “It’s unexpected.”

“It shouldn’t be. It’s a nice gift.”

“You brought me chocolate, Cal. You, who—” I gesture at him, at the jacket, the tattoos, the whole package of him. “You brought me chocolates.”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head. “That’s what people do when they like someone.”

Damn it, my heart skips.

“I know what people do. I just didn’t think you were a chocolate-bringer.”

He looks at the bag. Looks at me. Then he plucks it out of my hand, sets it on the nightstand, and in one smooth, stupidly coordinated motion, he tackles me onto the bed.

I shriek. The mattress bounces. He’s half on top of me, one arm braced beside my head, and he’s grinning down at me looking very pleased with himself.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll eat them all myself.”

My mouth drops. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” he says.

“I’ll fight you for them.”

“You’ll fight me?” His grin widens. “Alright, Doc. Show me what you’ve got.”

I push at his chest. He doesn’t move. I push harder. He doesn’t move at all, just looks down at me with that lazy, infuriating amusement, and I make a frustrated noise and grab for his wrist, trying to lever him off.

“Not even close,” he murmurs.

I twist, trying to get leverage, and he catches both my wrists in one hand—one hand, the bastard—and pins them above my head against the pillow. I struggle. I actually struggle, because I am not going to be manhandled this easily, and he just holds me there like it’s nothing, like I weigh nothing, like the whole of my effort is a gentle breeze he doesn’t need to think about.

“You’re—” I gasp. “That’s not fair. You’re twice my size⁠—”

“Yep.”

“Let me go.”

“Mm, let me think. Thought. No. I quite like the sight of you below me.”