Page 125 of Burning Daylight

I glance down the hall to see if anyone else is with him. They aren’t. It’s just the two of us. “Did you follow me?”

“And what if I did?”

“Now who’s the stalker?”

He smirks and leans in. My stomach flips at his proximity.

“I learned from the best,” he says.

Breathing deeply, I try to think logically here.

“What are you doing back here?” I ask.

He quirks a brow, stepping in closer. “I could ask you the same.”

“I thought I saw…” I trail off, looking at the door and then back at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I miss you.”

My hands leave the door and rise to push him away, but instead, my fingers dig into the material of his shirt, gripping it to pull him into me. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s the truth. You haven’t come to our spot indays.” His eyes are glossy, and there’s tequila on his breath, but it mixes with that woodsy scent that’s all him, and it’s almost more intoxicating than the alcohol. Heat pools between my legs, and I suck in a breath, knowing I should back away but not strong enough to break the connection.

“Why can’t I stay away from you?” I whisper.

He leans down, the tip of his nose skimming along the expanse of my neck and goose bumps sprout down my arms.

“If you figure out how, let me know.”

Laughter flows down the hallway, and my heart shoots into my throat. My fingers grip his shirt tighter, accidentally pulling him in, and he stumbles, his arm flying to the door until it’s resting next to my head, just a whisper of space between us.

His gaze darkens. “Come somewhere with me.”

“We’re in public, and…people have already seen us talking.”

“So?”

I look at him incredulously. “So, I can’t.”

“Says who?”

I toss a hand in the direction of the bar. “Everyone.”

He hums, reaching to tip my chin up until I’m locked in his gaze again. “Do you always do what everyone else wants?”

Ugh, he sounds like Felicity. And maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the way that I’ve missed him, too, even though ithasn’t beenthatlong since I’ve seen him, but my resistance is growing weaker by the second.

His mouth ghosts against the shell of my ear, not touching, just teasing, and his voice is low and deep when he says, “Such a good little rich girl. Always playing the part. Come on, Juliette, live a little. I promise I won’t tell.”

My heart flips and free-falls, tension coiling deep in my abdomen. I hate that he knows me so well already; that he can take my insecurities about being who everyone expects me to be and use them to play me like a fiddle.

“I’mnota good girl,” I say, but it sounds as fake as it feels. My mouth is dry, my fingers still bunched in his shirt.

“Prove it.”

“Maybe I just don’t trust you.”

He lets go of my chin now, his right arm still next to my head, and his left hand covers mine on his chest. “What should I swear by?”