All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(66)

Oh, heavens, it was tight. It strained against his biceps and lovingly clung to his broad shoulders, and its immaculate whiteness made his skin glow golden in the sun.

The snug fit of his faded jeans showcased the shifting muscles of his strong thighs as he braked and accelerated over and over, the rhythm hypnotizing. And between those thighs—

No, she wouldn’t look there. Not again.

Truly, her current preoccupation with his lean, strong body was his fault entirely, and it had started even before the half-naked fashion show. As soon as he’d spotted her standing on his circular drive that morning, he’d come bounding out of the mini-castle, his face creased in a huge, beaming smile, and stridden directly to her.

He hadn’t stopped a discreet foot or two away or waved from a distance. Oh, no.

Instead, he’d moved close and punctured the generous, invisible bubble of space that usually surrounded her and opened his arms wide, and what could she do then, really? What else could she do but walk forward into those arms, into his all-encompassing embrace?

He’d bent low to rest his cheek against her hair, and he’d murmured, Finally, you exasperating shrew, finally, and he’d wrapped around her like—

Like the blanket he’d given her, maybe. Warm and luxurious. More beautiful than anything she’d ever hoped to have or even dared to want.

But she did want him. And she’d had him for endless seconds on that driveway, maybe even a minute or two, because he hadn’t given her a quick squeeze and let her go. No, he’d held on tightly, and she hadn’t moved away either.

As they’d stood embracing one another, the warmth of his skin soaked through his clothing and heated to scorching against her fingertips on his back, her arms around his waist, her cheek on his chest. His jeans rubbed against the smooth fabric of her leggings, and the friction rippled through her until she swelled and ached between her thighs. Despite the barrier of her cotton bra and T-shirt, she was very much afraid he could feel her nipples harden against his stomach, and if she didn’t know better—

Well, surely she’d been mistaken. That was his phone or his wallet, not …

At the sense memory of that firm ridge against her upper belly, she reached desperately for her water bottle and took a long, long drink from the condensation-beaded plastic.

She would not look at his zipper placket again. She would not.

Even though, when they’d finally stepped apart on his driveway, she could have sworn his jeans fit a bit … differently … in that region than they usually did. And the kiss he’d pressed to her flushed skin then hadn’t landed on her temple or forehead.

He’d kissed her cheek, maybe a bare millimeter from the corner of her mouth.

Friends, she told herself for the millionth time that morning. He’s my all-too-affectionate friend, and he doesn’t understand what he’s doing to me.

When he spoke again in the hushed, intimate cocoon of the car, she had to jerk her gaze up from—dammit—where it kept drifting, despite her best intentions.

“That bumper sticker is essentially a monument, Wren.” He glanced behind him before switching lanes. “Also, my car isn’t that expensive.”

He was smiling at the road ahead and the bumper-to-bumper traffic it contained. When a song he especially liked played over the discreetly placed speakers, he hummed along, off-key. His shoulders were loose, his movements easy and fluid.

Despite all his professional woes, she’d never seen him look so relaxed and entirely pleased with himself and the world.

His happiness didn’t hinge on her presence, of course, but the sight of his joy still ignited a spark of pleasure inside her. Because he was able to let down his guard in her company. Because he deserved every bit of his seeming delight. Because he wanted her beside him in this car—which was, no matter what he claimed, unmistakably luxe.

“Really? It’s not that expensive?” Brows raised high, she traced a fingertip over the pleated interior trim on the passenger door. “Because I don’t remember fabric folded to look like origami inside vehicles in my price range. Or massage settings for buttery-soft leather seats.”

She did not like the speculative glance he darted her way then.

“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” she said sternly. “If you buy me a damn car, I’ll immediately donate it to charity.”

“You’d do it too.” It was a grumble. “Harpy.”

She snuggled deeper into her seat, satisfied. “Correct.”

He heaved an aggrieved sigh, despite the smile still creasing his bearded cheeks. “Okay, so this model wasn’t cheap, but a bunch of my costars have sports cars instead. Plural.”

A sports car couldn’t possibly be any more luxurious than this. She caressed the sleek, polished wood on the dash, tracing the herringbone pattern with her fingertips.

They were stopped in traffic for the moment, and he appeared to be staring at the dashboard too, although the sunglasses made it hard to say for sure.

His white teeth sank into his lower lip, and the car ahead of them accelerated.

They didn’t.

“Alex?” Even as she pointed to the now-open road, the SUV behind them honked. “Alex, we need to move.”

The next honk was way longer and part of a growing chorus of discontent, and he jumped a little before facing forward again and stomping on his own accelerator.