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“Your argument doesn’t stand?”
His head twists in my direction and I should probably look away before our eyes lock, but stupidly, I don’t. “Do you really want to know why I’m here?”
My heart hammers and my stomach feels as if it’s the cage at the zoo’s butterfly exhibit. Is he about to stop with the sexual innuendos and get real? Tell me that I’m his reason for coming up here every weekend? I’m afraid of how I’ll react if he does. I’m pretty sure it would involve nakedness.
Which is stupid, because in my head, he’s wrapped in “Danger” tape. He’s too smooth… too suave… he’ll eat me and spit me out after I’ve fallen for him.
“Sure, tell me why you’re here.” I pretend to be unfazed when my body is poised on the brink of its flight response.
“I’m here for my ma. She thinks I work too hard and that I need to take some time to enjoy life.”
All the excitement that was sparking inside me is doused with a firefighter’s hose. The anticipation of finally crossing the line and hearing him say something more than just that he wants me in bed, that maybe this thing between us could blossom into something more, fizzles. My day’s grown shittier and more depressing than the weather.
My shoulders slump and I slide my chair out from the table. “I’m going to go work.”
“Yeah, I’ll be in right behind you.” He never looks at me, his gaze focusing on the pool as if he’s running something through his head. Deep in thought.
Whatever. He can sit there all day. It’s only further proof that he’s not the man I want in my life because the kind of man I want isn’t afraid to acknowledge his feelings for me. He’d own them without apology. Just another check mark in the column of reasons why Carm Mancini isn’t meant for Bella Scott.
My hand rests on the handle of the sliding door. Anger washes over me like the crashing waves on the beach.
Fuck Carmelo Mancini. If he’s not man enough to lay his feelings on the line and admit that we’re both here in this house because of one another, that we make sure we’re always looking our best in case we run into each other—even when we’re lounging around this place—then fuck him. He might be willing to deny it, but I can’t continue to live this way, ping-ponging back and forth between I want you, no, I hate you.
I’m self-aware enough to know that some of my anger may come from the fact that he sold a unit already, but that was just the match that lit the fire burning inside me.
“You know what?” I turn around, and his head slowly circles toward me. I’m not sure if he sees something in my eyes or not, but his eyes flare. “Never mind.”
I turn back around, but his chair legs scratch on the concrete and before I have time to escape, his chest presses against my back while his arm rests on the side of the house, caging me in. I could leave if I wanted to, but I don’t.
“What is it?” His voice is low but confident, like he wants to push me as much as I want to push him right now.
“You,” I spit out.
His finger runs down the length of my arm, goose bumps marring the smoothness of my skin. “What about me? Are you distressed over the fact that you can’t stop thinking about me?” He steps forward and his hard length presses into my lower back. I release a shaky breath. “That we’re so drawn to one another that pretty soon one of us is going to combust? Is that the reason you’re so hot and bothered right now?”
Shivers run up my spine, and he blows a hot breath against the base of my neck. I yank my hair out its ponytail so it will cover the spot.
“You’re playing games.” The bite in my tone can’t be ignored.
He steps back, seemingly alarmed by it, his hand falling from my arm. “I thought we both were?”
I turn and there he is. So close. So kissable. So desirable. So confused looking. I lightly push him just to get some clearance so I can take a breath, and I walk to the edge of the deck where rain is coming down in sheets.
“Talk to me.” He comes alongside me but not close enough to touch. Thankfully, his hands remain in his pockets.
“You’re a coward,” I say.
His head rears back.
“Or you’re a liar.”
His head tilts.
“Because tell me, this thing between us”—I wave a finger between us—“do you just want to have sex with me once and have that be the end of it?”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m not sure what you’re so mad at. We mess around, that’s what we do.”
“No! That’s what you do. You constantly toe the line between enemy, friend, and wannabe lover. I have no idea who or what you actually want to be in my life.”
