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Makes me curious.
Makes me... hot.
A little shaky.
A lot breathless.
I can’t quite put my finger on it. Every time we’re together, we start squabbling. As if we annoy each other, yet we’re also drawn to each other?
It’s confusing. He confuses me.
My feelings for him confuse me too. I don’t know what’s going on in my head full of jumbled thoughts.
The air grows heavier the longer we stare at each other, and just when I’m about to say something that’s probably stupid, he reaches out, his fingers featherlight as they trace the edge of my jaw.
My entire being erupts into tingles. From the top of my scalp to my toes, I can feel him. Those fingers barely touching me, drifting upward, pausing at the corner of my lips.
I swallow hard, my lips closing around his fingertip with the movement, and I swear I see an inferno ignite in his gaze.
His hand drops, and disappointment crashes through me at the loss of connection. Without thought, I rest my hand on his black shirt—we match, like we’re going to a funeral—right in the center of his chest, and I can feel his heart hammer beneath my palm.
I lift my gaze to find he’s already watching me, his face deathly serious.
As if he’s attending a funeral.
Defeat engulfs me, and I want to sag to the floor.
This isn’t going to work.
There’s no warning when he slips his arm around my waist and yanks me close, my hand still on his chest. A gasp escapes me, my breasts crushed to his front, the hem of my dress riding up when he tightens his grip on my waist. Our legs tangle and our breaths mingle and slowly he smooths his hand up my back, making a cascade of goose bumps rise all over my skin.
“You can’t look at me like that, Scar,” he murmurs. I swear he’s the only one who’s ever called me Scar. No one else would dare. It sounds almost like an insult.
“Like what?” I’m breathless. All from standing too close. From having him touch me in a relatively staid manner.
So why do his hands on me feel like... everything?
“Like you’re scared to death of me.” He reaches out with his free hand and presses the spot right between my eyebrows. “This little wrinkle needs to relax.”
I feel my forehead ease just from his gentle touch.
“And you should smile more.”
I paste on an overly bright smile.
“Jesus, not like that.” He grimaces.
I scowl at him. He laughs.
“Only use that face when we’re arguing in public.”
“You want to argue in public?” That doesn’t sound like a good idea.
“If we make up in public too, definitely. Look what happened the last time we did,” he reminds me.
Out on the sidewalk, when he grabbed me. That kiss. That photo is still getting us a lot of attention.
“We’re young and in love,” he continues. “And we’ll need to come up with a backstory.”
