Page 57 of Bennett

That kiss had felt like a beginning.

And beginnings were risky.

So, for now, she’d drink her coffee, pretend she wasn’t thinking about his mouth, and try very hard not to throw herself at him again.

Well, maybe not very hard.

Bennett set his coffee on the counter, gaze still locked on hers.

It was that look again. The one that made her feel like he could see right through the casual sarcasm, straight into the nerves she was trying to keep under control.

He took a step closer. “Just for the record…”

Laurel’s breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“That kiss last night?” His voice dropped low, rough around the edges, and her stomach fluttered in response. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

A thrill rushed through her, interrupting her pulse. She agreed. It wasn’t a mistake. It was amazing.

Wait.

No, no, no.

That was definitely not what she needed to hear while standing in her kitchen wearing a hoodie and sleep-tousled hair. Or maybe it was exactly what she needed, because now her heart was doing that thing again, cartwheeling around her ribcage like a caffeinated squirrel.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because Bennett had taken another step forward. He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating off him. His hand lifted, slowly and deliberately, to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, fingertips grazing her skin in a way that left goosebumps in their wake.

“Bennett…”

“If you don’t want me to—”

“I didn’t say that,” she whispered, because, oh yeah, she wanted him to even if it wasn’t smart.

He leaned in, his gaze flicking from her mouth to her eyes and back again, before he lowered his lips to hover over hers.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

A sharp knock rattled the door.

Laurel jerked back, wide-eyed. “Seriously?”

Bennett exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening like it took real effort not to say exactly what he was thinking. “I swear, this building has a sixth sense for bad timing.”

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushed, trying to get her pulse under control. “It’s probably Brandi. Or one of the contractors. Or the ESI guys.”

“Or the forensic team Gabe promised.” He moved to the door, muttering something under his breath about bricks, cockblocks, and crime scenes.

Laurel snorted softly and hugged her mug to her chest as she leaned to watch him walk to the entrance. Blue jeans were meant to be worn by that man.

He opened the door just wide enough to reveal a pair of serious-looking men in black polos with official-looking kits in hand.

“CSI,” one of them said. “We’re here to take a look at the window damage.”

Bennett stepped aside and gestured them in without a word, his face slipping back into that unreadable, professional expression.

Laurel sighed.