The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,45

nods, giving me permission to raise her arms higher, press harder. I align my body with hers as the car whisks down.

Her brown eyes are hazy. “I love this,” she whispers.

“You really ought to be kissed into oblivion in an elevator . . . and by someone who knows how.” I lean my body into hers, and a heady whimper falls from her lips. She must know how aroused I am. My hips press against her. She wriggles against me.

My mouth is inches from her delicious lips. We are hovering, poised in a moment when all these lessons could fly out the window and this could turn into a real kiss. A hot kiss. A hungry kiss.

I know she wants it.

Trouble is, I don’t know if she wants it from me—or to learn how it feels.

But I don’t know that I’m going to find the answer right now, so instead of searching for it, I take another liberty. Letting go of her wrists, I unclip her hair. The lush blonde strands fall through my fingers as I press a kiss to her neck. She moans.

She moans my goddamn name.

“Gabe.”

I nearly die of an overdose of desire. I nip her neck, and she murmurs. Everything between us could change in an instant. She could turn her face to me. I could bring mine closer to her. Our lips could brush together.

I bite her neck, and she’s groaning now, practically melting against my body.

Everything could change if I moved my lips.

One kiss and we’d no longer be playing games.

The moment expands into choices, a cascade of options that all entice me.

But those choices end when the car stops. The elevator doors open on the first floor. We separate, and I see Darla.

28

Arden

The redheaded nurse is fresh-faced, with glowing skin and clear blue eyes. But she gives us a clinical once-over, and it’s as if I’ve been caught stealing meds from the pharmacy closet.

The way she stares is knowing, as if she’s adding up the clues.

My hair is down, a little wild.

Yet my hair wasn’t down when I ran into her in the fifth-floor ladies’ room when I first arrived.

Does she know I was about to be kissed senseless in the elevator seconds ago? Does she know I was ready to wave the white flag of surrender and give in to all these wild feelings I have for my friend? She can’t know that, of course. She doesn’t know me.

But she knows him.

Her eyes flick to the man next to me, and she says his name in a businesslike manner. “Hi, Gabe.”

Too businesslike.

His Adam’s apple bobs, almost painfully, it seems, as he swallows. “Hi, Darla.” His voice is strained.

“How’s Michael? I trust he’s well?” Her tone is chipper but forced.

“Having a good day.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” She raises her chin and casts a quick glance at me.

It doesn’t take a detective to figure out the mystery.

My stomach churns as the answer clicks into place.

He dated her.

I don’t know when. I don’t know for how long. He never mentioned her, nor would I have expected him to do so. But he clearly did.

“This is Arden,” he says, as if the words are new and strange on his tongue.

She raises her hand in a clinical wave. “Pleasure to meet you.” She gestures down the hall. “I should get back to work. I’m glad everything is going well. Have a great day.”

Darla’s voice is professional as she turns on her heel, but beneath that veneer, I can make out all the undertones. I can hear everything unsaid.

She wanted to ask Gabe for more. He wasn’t interested in more because that’s who he is. He’s the ladies’ man. He’s the charmer. That’s exactly why I asked him for help.

But at this moment, his past cuts me. It makes me want to shut down, protect myself.

Yet, maybe this run-in is exactly what I need to remind me we can’t be more. When he looks at me with fire in his eyes like he did in the elevator, like he did at the Garden of Eden, it’s because he’s remarkably good at sex and remarkably good at charming women.

Not because he’s craving me the same way I’m longing for him. I want him in a way that’s more than physical, in a way that’s dancing scarily close to my heart.

I purse my lips, locking in emotions I don’t want to set free.

I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to feel icy or cold toward him. I don’t