it was me, but I’ll never forget that it was him. From here on out, we can only be friends—and maybe he doesn’t even want that. As that reality sinks in, I take a small step back and my knees wobble as I search for the handrail. His hand instantly reaches out and snatches my arm to pull me back. My body collides with his, and his hardness mashed against my softness is a clear reminder of the way he touched me last night.
“Careful,” he warns, his warm breath washing over my face. “The railing is loose and I don’t want you to fall.”
“Oh, thanks.” His head dips, and I breathe in the scent of his freshly showered skin. I have no idea what kind of soap he uses, but it’s quickly becoming my favorite. His lips linger inches from mine, and if I knew better, if I had one brain cell that worked properly in his presence, I’d step around him, and get straight to our tutoring.
You are just friends.
As I mentally recite that, his head snaps up, like someone just slapped him across the face—or maybe he can read my thoughts—and he backs away from me.
“I hope you like chicken alfredo,” he says, his voice husky as he gestures with a nod for me to follow as he heads down the hall toward the kitchen, his bare feet slapping the tile floor.
I kick my shoes off and following him as I rub my stomach, even though he can’t see me, and glance at the bare walls. In all the years they’ve had this house, they don’t have a single picture up. The place really needs a woman’s touch—it just won’t be mine.
“It’s only my favorite.”
I follow behind him and try not to stare at his perfect ass in those sexy, low slung jeans. It’s impossible, so I just go ahead and look my fill. I breathe in the delicious scents when we reach the kitchen and look at the pots on the stove.
Trying for casual, two friends about to have dinner together, I grin. “I’m impressed, Brooks.”
He smiles back at the use of his last name, and gives me a little nudge with his shoulder. “You should be, Holmes.” I pull a baguette from my backpack, and he glances at the brown paper bag. “That had better be homemade.”
I laugh at that. “Sorry, it’s not. If you don’t want it,” I make a move to shove it back into my bag when his hand snakes out to grab it. His fingers brush mine, linger for a moment, and my damn traitorous body tingles from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He pulls the bread from my hand fast, like his hand was on fire, and puts it on the counter. Alrighty then. No touching. I get it. He’s with Ivy now.
“Point me in the direction of the knives and I’ll cut this up.” He pulls a knife from the drawer, and hands it over. “Cutting board?”
He produces a cutting board and I go to work on the bread as he drops the pasta into the boiling water, and stands beside me, watching me carefully. My body tenses, so aware of the man beside me and the way he’s tracking my every movement. I shift, a little uncomfortable under his inspection.
I cast him a fast glance. “Can I ask you something?” I begin and this time his entire body goes stiff. What? Is he worried I’m about to bring up last night? Does that mean he knows it was me?
“Yeah, sure.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, pulling his jeans down even more, and my synapses fire erratically at the sexy sight. How the hell does he expect me to carry on a conversation when he looks so damn slurpalicious—as Peyton would say?
The fresh scent of the still warm bread reaches my nostrils, and I poise the knife over the remainder of the loaf. “How well do you know Cameron Reid?”
His eyes darken, and his chest rises and falls with each breaths. There is a dark, warning look in his eyes when he asks, “Why?”
“He texted me.”
“Stay away from him. He’s trouble.”
I shrug. “He seems nice, and I’m a big girl, Landon. I can make my own decisions.” Why the hell am I bringing up Cameron? Is there a part of me that wants to see if he’ll react? God, have I become that girl?