Deeper (Caroline & West #1)(38)

But, actually, is it? His hands on my shoulders are familiar. At the bakery, he often touches me like this. Casually—tapping my kneecap on the way past, dropping a hand on top of my head when I’m about to leave, rubbing my shoulders in an idle moment when we’re both chatting with Krishna.

He’s a physical person. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

I’m the one whose heart stops, every time.

“It’s nobody’s business but ours,” West says.

Any normal person would be dissuaded by how forbidding West looks right now, but Krishna isn’t normal. “If you’re not going to f*ck, we should start thinking about hooking Caroline up. It’s about time she got back in the game, don’t you think?”

Bridget punches him in the arm. “It’s not a game.”

Krishna pitches his voice in a spot-on imitation of Bridget. “It’s not a game, it’s not fun, she’s not a piece of ass.” Then, in his normal voice, “Swear to God, woman, it’s like you’re allergic to everything in the world that might accidentally make you feel good.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t be a prude.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and Quinn mutters something that sounds like “Talk about two people who need to f*ck.”

“What?” Bridget screeches. “What are you implying?! Because if you’re trying to say—”

“Never mind.”

I expect Krishna to be all over that comment, but he surprises me by getting up off the couch and disappearing into the kitchen. He comes back with a beer, even though he already has a drink. He pops the top and takes a long swallow. He doesn’t look at Bridget at all, and we just watch him, fascinated.

Or, I have to confine myself to glances, actually, because West has dug his thumbs deeper into my neck muscles, forcing my head forward. My hair hangs down in my face. His thumbs are branding irons, blunt and hot, searing parallel lines into my skin from my hairline to the low-dipping collar of my shirt. Again. Again. His fingers wrap around my shoulders, gripping like he owns me, and I’m melting.

I’m liquid.

I’m his.

“Let’s not get distracted from the point,” Krishna says. “The point is, Caroline needs a rebound lay.”

“Oh, do I?”

I sound drugged.

I am drugged.

Bridget protests for me. “She does not.”

“Seriously, Krish, you’re being a jackass,” Quinn says.

“We’ve got to find her a hookup. After Thanksgiving, I’m going to make it my personal goal in life to get Caroline some action.”

“Caroline can get her own action,” Bridget says. “I mean, if she even wanted to, which—”

“Which I don’t.”

“Because you’re traumatized,” Quinn says.

“I’m not traumatized.”

I’m flustered and hot. I’m hoping, rather desperately, that the prickling in my nipples doesn’t mean the headlights are on and everyone in the room can see what West is doing to me, right in front of them.

“It’s all right,” Quinn says. “Nobody’s judging you. This is your safe zone.”

“Caroline doesn’t need a safe zone,” Bridget says. “She’s doing great. Tell them about—”

She sees my face and stops, but it’s too late.

“What?” Krishna asks.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“It’s nothing. Really.” I reach forward for my drink, breaking contact with West because things are about to turn ugly. I can feel it. The air has gotten heavy. My arousal has fled like a rabbit startled back into its hole.

I knock back a big gulp of butterscotch schnapps and start to choke again, which is a tactical error, because while I’m debilitated, Krishna goes after Bridget.

“Tell me what you were going to say,” he demands. I tip sideways on the couch, coughing so hard that I have to pull my knees up. West rubs my back.

“Breathe,” he says in a low murmur.

Even that’s sexy. I’m choking to death, racked with guilt over what Bridget almost revealed, and I still have a corner of my brain devoted to fainting at the hotness of West. I’m a hopeless case.

Bridget crosses her arms, squared off against Krishna. “I’m not telling.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me—”

“Oh, all right. I was just going to say about this guy she met.”

“There’s a guy?” Quinn asks.

I’m barely capable of inhaling. When I say, “There’s no guy,” I drool a little on the leather, and I have to wipe it off with the palm of my hand.

I can’t look at West.

“It’s too late to deny it,” Krishna says. “Bridget already spilled. Who’s the guy?”

I don’t see any way out of telling them. I sit up. “You remember Scott?” I ask Quinn.

“Rugby Scott?”

“Yeah.”

“He asked you out?”

“No! No. It’s nothing. It’s just … I just mentioned to Bridget that I might try to find out his last name. From you. In case.”