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When did I get so close to her?
It would be so damn easy to lean forward, thread my hands through her dark, tumbling hair, bring her lips to mine where theybelong.
The strength of the urge catches me off guard.
I stand up, grabbing my empty bottle. I answered her question, and then some. Which means it’s time for me to get off this damn roof. “I’m hiring a wedding planner tomorrow. Do you want to be involved in the planning process?”
“God no,” Hazel says, aghast. “I mean, it would be different if it was real but...”
“It’s not,” I finish for her.
For a second I feel a flash of guilt for making her participate in this farce of a wedding, but I push it down ruthlessly.
“Just don’t make me wear an awful dress,” Hazel jokes. “I don’t want to look awful on my fake-wedding-day. A girl has standards.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her she could never look awful, but that feels dangerously close to a sincere compliment. Instead, I say gruffly, “I’ll leave you one of my credit cards. You can go shopping for it tomorrow.”
I turn to go.
Hazel scrambles to her feet. “Luke?”
I turn around, reluctant. What the hell does she want now?
“Can I shadow you sometime this week, at the office? I think watching you work will fill in a lot of gaps for me, for the book.” She hurries to add, “And it won’t disrupt your schedule at all. I’ll just sit quietly in a corner. You won’t even notice me.”
Of course I’ll notice her. It’s like the fucking air changes when she steps into a room.
But I don’t have a good reason to turn her down. If it helps her write this damn book, it may even be for the best.
“Fine,” I agree, gruffly.
I head to the door. Hazel wanders toward the edge of the roof.
At the last second, I turn around and point to the railing. “Are you going to climb up on that as soon as I leave?”
Hazel bites her lip, like a child who’s been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
I open the door wide and gestured for her to precede me. “Your roof privileges have been revoked, young lady. Inside.”
She laughs.
I wait.
“You can’t be serious,” she says.
“You lived in a building with a front door that didn’t lock. InNew York.”
“You’re really hung up on that,” Hazel says.
“Just get inside,” I growl, aware I’m being ridiculous, but unable to stop myself.
She glares at me. Then she stomps past me, her ass twitching.
I follow her inside, telling myself I’m only being insanely overprotective because Hazel is my best friend’s little sister. It has nothing at all to do with that wild smile of hers. Or the way she’s the first person in a decade to figure out that I’m lonely.
It has nothing to do with that at all.
14
