“It’s unofficial business.” My mother’s voice floats into the room, light and airy as she follows the same path I just took, wrapping her arms around my father’s neck and kissing his cheek. She smiles at me above his head. “Which means we’re ordering from Opulence. How would you feel about going with me to pick it up?”
“Anything to get away from him,” I mutter, drying my hands on a dishtowel. When I look back over at the dining table, they’re all watching me, and I frown. “What?”
“Him who?” my mother asks, standing up straight to hold her left elbow in her right palm, as if to quiet the storm raging inside her muscles.
“Um...” My eyes dart to Boyd, who’s staring back with a dark, dangerous expression, like he’s daring me to say something about what happened between us. It makes my fingers curl at my sides as I drop the hand towel, the familiar itch to fix trying to claw its way to my brain so it can make my body obey.
I reach out and grip the edge of the island counter, squeezing until the tips of my fingers bloom white and go numb.
“Him being Kieran, obviously.” I force a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as hollow as it feels. “His cooking skills, I meant. If we go pick up food from Opulence, we avoid having to taste anything he makes, which means I won’t spend the night vomiting after eating uncooked chicken.”
Kieran rolls his eyes. “That was one time, and it was pork, thank you.”
“Right.” Nodding to my mother, I plaster a wide smile on my face. “I’m just gonna change real quick and we can go. Did you order lasagna?”
Her hand flies to her chest in mock offense. “As if I’d order anything else.”
Sprinting up to my bedroom, I strip quickly and walk into my en suite, brushing a few of the tangles from my hair and reapplying a thin layer of concealer beneath my eyes. Anything to hide a bad night’s sleep.
Pulling my hair into a bun, I head back into my bedroom, gasping when I notice the large figure standing at my desk, holding a framed picture from Christmas 2006.
“I’m not really sure you should be in here.”
Turning slowly, Boyd cocks an eyebrow, dragging his hungry gaze over my body. It takes a second to remember I’m standing in a lace bra and matching pink thong, and a hot blush crawls up my skin.
I can tell he expects me to be embarrassed and probably duck into my walk-in closet by the way one corner of his mouth quirks and humor dances in his eyes.
But I don’t. Instead, I drop my hands to my hips and straighten my spine, refusing to back down. My eyes burn with the effort it takes to avoid glancing down at the dark suit he has on, my brain imagining all the ways I’d like to shred it off his body, but I don’t want to lose this battle, stupid as it may be.
Sometimes, you just need a win.
He takes a step forward, lust flaring behind his eyes as they fixate on my breasts; the bra isn’t padded, my nipples are visibly puckered beneath the material, and I feel his desire between my thighs. It swirls, a reckless tsunami of conflict and passion, causing the blush in my cheeks to spread down my neck, staining my chest with its fury.
“I should definitely not be in here,” he whispers, taking another step in my direction. We’re silent as he continues to move toward me; my breathing grows shallow as our chests brush, hips mere centimeters apart.
“What’s happening now?” I blurt, trying to resurface after the caramel depths of his irises threaten to pull me under.
“You ask too many questions.”
Gritting my teeth, I frown. “It’s just that, when you freaked out and got rude after kissing me the other day, I kind of got the impression you didn’t want to do that again.”
His hand reaches out, knuckles dusting against my jaw. “I don’t.”
“That’s not what your eyes are saying.”
As if my words snap him out of some kind of spell, Boyd yanks back suddenly, putting immediate distance between us by leaning against one of my white bedposts. Pulling at the collar of his black dress shirt, he lets his gaze drift lazily around the room.
His prolonged, quiet perusal makes anxiety climb up my neck, its fingers gripping my throat in a chokehold.
I scratch absently at my collarbone, needing to put more distance between us. Moving to the closet, I pull out a pair of distressed jeans and a red Stonemore Community sweatshirt, yanking them on before returning to the room.
When I get back, Boyd’s lounging in my desk chair, his feet propped up beside my textbooks.
A book in the middle is slightly askew, farther to the right than the rest of the stack, and I just know he knocked it off balance. I don’t leave my things out of place—not when the fucking bedspread having a kink in it will keep me up for days.
An itch grows under my cheeks, and I scrape my nails over the spot, trying to find relief. I think he’s talking to me, but the harder I scratch, the longer I stare at the lopsided stack, the farther I fall into an abyss of despair.
The one that has no rationale for why that stack needs to be straight, all the spines aligned and in ascending order of biggest to smallest covers, but that if I don’t fix it immediately, something bad will happen.