Page 79 of Make Me Yours

My fingers flex against her warm skin, and even through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses, my focus narrows to just this.

Her.

My cousin, of course, can’t resist the opportunity to needle me.

“So,” he says casually, “how long do you think you’ll play house with this guy?”

Lilah raises her glass, taking a sip of her espresso martini. “I’m not sure. Hopefully not too long. I’ve been checking out apartments online.”

Excuse me?

She glances over at me when my hand tightens on her knee.

“He’s been great,” she adds. “But I don’t want to keep cramping his style.”

A growl builds in my chest. “You’re not cramping anything. You can stay as long as you want. Hell, you can stay forever.”

Her lips part as her eyes widen.

It’s almost a surprise when she doesn’t argue.

Bridger leans forward, clearly loving this. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about cramping his style. Steele hasn’t had a girlfriend in—what is it now? Three years?”

I shoot him a glare. “It’s been a while.”

My cousin laughs.

Fucker.

He knows exactly how long it’s been.

And the reason for it.

Holland rolls her eyes. “Behave, Bridger. Or next time, the kids are babysitting you.”

I take a moment to steady myself, trying to rein all the emotion back in. “Besides, how can Lilah move out when Waffles is just getting comfortable?”

Bridger frowns. “Who’s Waffles?”

“Our kitten,” Lilah says with a small smile. “Steele brought her home a few weeks ago.”

Bridger looks between us with interest. “You two havea cat? How’s that going to work down the road?”

“Shared custody,” I say smoothly. “Weekends and holidays are negotiable.”

Bridger whistles. “Wow. You two really are doing this whole thing backward.”

The table bursts into laughter, and the conversation veersoff into lighter territory, but the tension between me and Lilah doesn’t fade.

It continues to simmer, low and steady, thickening in the air with every glance, every touch.

And it’s getting harder to hold back.

After dessert, Bridger’s phone buzzes. One glance at the screen has him muttering an apology before answering. A moment later, he slips the cell into his pocket with a faint smile.

“Sitter’s checking in,” he says, rising to his feet. “Looks like it’s time for us to head home.”

Holland stands as well. “Thank you for dinner. We needed a night like this.”