Sweet Rivalry (1001 Dark Nights)(16)

Crap.

I grit my teeth as the doors slide back open and in those few seconds, prepare myself for seeing the man I swore I’d avoid like the plague today.

But there is absolutely nothing that could prepare me for the sight of Ryder when he walks into the car. He’s shirtless, his jogging shorts are slung low on his hips, and every ink-etched detail of his sculpted torso is misted with sweat.

My subconscious was way off base. Whoever said dreams were better flat out lied. Because Ryder is mouthwateringly fine. Breathtakingly sexy.

My better sense tells me I need to look away, that I need to look down at my shoes so he doesn’t see me in the car and yet I just can’t.

My eyes refuse to obey my mind’s commands.

Because everything I wondered about yesterday afternoon when he was rolling his cuffs up just came to life in full living color. The answers to the questions I had in my dreams about what his tattoos were of and their placement on his body are front and center. And the split second I have to pull myself together and glance away before he catches me gawking is lost to the pang of lust coursing through me from the combination of his testosterone-laced beauty in front of me.

Save yourself, Harper. Look. Away.

Look.

Away.

But before I can pull my gaze from the sculpted abs, mouthwatering biceps, and intricate tattoos, they are headed straight toward me. In. Full. 3D. Living. Color.

I suck in a breath as I come face to chest with every hard inch of him. My body reacts in every visceral way imaginable. My hair stands on end as if it’s trying to get closer to him, to touch him somehow. My mouth goes dry. My body tenses and aches with a delicious burn. I neglect to breathe.

Thoughts flash, hold, mesmerize. How I want to reach out, place my hands on his pecs, and feel if they are as firm as they look. How I would love to take my fingertip and trace the lines of the designs, slide it over his skin misted with sweat as his chest moves in and out from the exertion of what I assume was the workout he just finished.

The elevator jolts subtly as it starts to rise and knocks me from my lust-induced trance and back to my senses. My cheeks immediately fill with heat because it’s hard to be nonchalant or downplay what I’m doing when the man I’m ogling is inches from me. But I don’t look up––can’t––instead I stare back down to the Starbucks cup with my misspelled name on it and hope he doesn’t say a single word so I can hold tight to what dignity I have left.

Please.

The door dings. Ryder shuffles to the side to let the person beside us exit. And the minute he does, I step farther back into the car.

Get some distance from him. Create your Ryder-free zone.

The minute the thought crosses my mind though, Ryder adjusts and steps back into his position, his chest to my nose.

Seconds pass. They feel like forever. I tell myself to look anywhere else than at the tattoos or the rivulet of sweat that slides ever so slowly over his nipple. Down to my Starbucks cup again. At the ground. To anywhere. And of course I do none of the above.

Instead, I look up.

Right into the blue of his eyes.

That breath I just got back? It’s lost again.

Our eyes meet, hold, lock. There is no flicker of amusement in his. The sarcastic gleam I’m used to is nonexistent. Void. And yet his eyes are filled with so much more that I’m afraid to acknowledge and at the same time dying to explore: hunger, want, need, desire.

This is the man I used to want, and yet now I understand that the want I knew before as a coed was nothing compared to the desire I can acknowledge and crave for as an adult.

The desire that can’t be there. Not now. Not like this. With our history between us and the job in front of us.

And yet none of that matters as we stand like this, inches apart, as if our bodies are hovering on both sides of that fine line we know we can’t cross but that our eyes are saying otherwise to.

The car dings.

More people shuffle on and off.

And yet our eyes never waver.

I think I breathe.

My hands clench the coffee cup in my hand but I don’t notice the heat that burns my skin through it.

I’m afraid to move. Afraid I’ll bump into him. Know that if I do, that the simple connection I was thinking of a moment ago—of his skin beneath my fingers—might be too much to bear. Desire restrained. Restraint then tested.

And so we stand in place hypnotized by the other, the elevator dings at each floor, people walk on and off, shift around us, but we remain.

His eyes flicker down to my lips. I watch as he stares at them, like how his own lips move ever so slightly before he looks back up to mine. And it’s in that moment I realize the car has stopped once again, that the doors have opened, and we are the only ones left.

But I don’t move. Don’t make an attempt to leave the elevator on what I can only assume is my floor because my feet are rooted in place, my eyes haven’t moved, and my nerves are alert with anticipation over whatever it is that might come next.

The thing I want and the thing I don’t want are one and the same: a kiss.

The simple realization hits me harder than I’d like to admit. And the minute it does, I’m a flustered mess of emotions that are too strong to ignore and too ridiculous to entertain.

And then I shock back to reality. To who this is. To why I can’t. To holy shit, what am I doing?

“I’m sorry…I uh, I’ve-I’ve––” I move in a frenzy of uncoordinated movements to try to get around him but he sidesteps and prevents me the same time his hand blocks the door from closing.