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If I wasn’t hurting so bad, I’d say something about it, but right now, I just want to get upstairs and out of the house.

I wave at her so she won’t hear the shake in my voice. I walk toward the staircase and start climbing the stairs toward the door at the top. I can feel Beckham behind me, but I can’t seem to move fast enough. I’m mad, but mostly embarrassed that I got hurt in front of him.

Why did he have to be here? Urgh.

“You don’t have to follow me, Beck. I’m fine.”

“You’re not okay. Let me get you some ice for your arm.”

“I don’t need a babysitter. This isn’t the long walk from psychology class.”

“You’re right. It’s more dangerous. A hurt, beautiful girl, leaving a house party alone late at night. Stop being so stubborn,” he says, and I feel his hand touching my uninjured arm to stop me.

“Leave me alone. I’ll be fine. I just want to go home.” I try to yank my arm out of his grasp, but he pulls me to a stop before we reach the top of the staircase.

Our chests collide.

I still, half loving how authoritative he is over me and half resenting him for it. I look down at our feet and fight the urge to push him away. Like I’ve been doing for the last couple of years.

For some reason, in this moment, it’s not coming as easily.

I blame my damn elbow.

I blame the last month and his ever-protective ways.

Beck places a finger on my chin and lifts my face toward his, forcing me to look up and into his blue eyes. “Come on, Boss. Just stop for a second and let me look at it.”

His fingers run along my arm, and I get lost in the feeling of it. The way the rough pads of his fingers brush over my skin, sending waves of gooseflesh up my arm and down to my core.

He’s standing one step below me, but it makes us nearly at eye level. He’s so close that I can see the dark circle around the blue of his eyes. It’s hypnotizing.

He’s hypnotizing.

Beckham’s left hand grabs my hip with a slight squeeze as his right hand trails up my arm before gently skimming my neck. Then he brushes his fingers over my cheek and tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear, lingering there until his hand moves to the back of my head, tugging me closer.

I can’t stop staring into his eyes. I watch his heated gaze move over every inch of my face. Like he’s memorizing me. Then he looks at my mouth, then my eyes, and back to my mouth.

“Charlie,” he breathes.

I feel like there is a magnetic force pulling me toward him.

One tiny move, and our lips will connect.

My injured arm is tucked tight against my side, but with my other hand, I tentatively touch the biceps of his arm. The move forces me closer into him until our breaths are one as we drink each other in.

My heart is pounding in anticipation. He licks his bottom lip, and I shiver at the sight.

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” he growls, desperation in his voice.

I’m thinking a million things. How much I crave his touch and how having his hand on my hip makes me ache for more of it.

I’m thinking about how I’ve missed his kisses, so smooth yet consuming. It’s taking everything in me to not steal one from him.

And I’m thinking how badly I’ve missedhim. Despite the hurt, I want Beckham Linson.

“I’m thinking that the lines between us have blurred and I’m afraid we’ll both get hurt.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, and my heart drops. “You’ve done a damn good job of keeping me away. I should stay away. I should walk back down these steps and let you go.”