Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(60)

“The definition of rapid-fire is that we do this fast. That means you can’t expound on every question or we’ll be here all day.”

“But you said you want to know things,” I point out.

“I said I want to know certain things, not all the things.” He sticks his tongue in his cheek. “Got it?”

“Sorry.” I laugh. “I’ll try to do better.”

“Great.” He grins. “Pepperoni or mushrooms?”

“Pepperoni. Never mushrooms.”

“I’m letting you pass because you got the correct answer, but remember: rapid-fire.”

“I didn’t know there were correct answers,” I say.

He just grins. “Blush or Bashful.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Correct answer. Morning or evening?”

“Evening,” I say, laughing.

“Truck or SUV?”

“Who is driving?”

“Me.”

“Then truck,” I say matter-of-factly.

I don’t add how hot he looks in his truck with the big tires and black-on-black motif. He did say this was rapid-fire, after all.

The look in his eyes changes. It morphs into a darker, more serious vibe.

“House in town or cabin in the woods?” he asks.

I tap my chin. “Cabin in the woods, but I hate phrasing it like that because it sounds scary. I mean, did you see that movie—”

“Rapid-fire.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying not to laugh.

He narrows his eyes. “Would you ever fillet a fish?”

“Ew. No.”

“Wrong answer,” he says, falling back in his chair. “You were batting a thousand, and then you go and fuck up the most important question of them all.”

I burst into laughter, smacking him on the knee. “Those were subjective questions.”

“With right answers.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You really wouldn’t fillet a fish?”

“No. Absolutely not. I have no interest in killing anything.”

“I’d kill it. You’d prepare it.”

“I don’t care,” I say, my voice a full octave higher than usual. “I don’t even really eat fish.”

Like I’ve just called him the worst name in the book, he jumps to his feet. “You don’t like fish?”

“No,” I say, standing too. “Is that somehow offensive to you?”

We stand toe to toe. There’s a smile sitting just behind his lips that he’s holding back. I know I shouldn’t stare at them, but I can’t help it. I want to see it break.

He moves one step and then two. His body shifts so that we’re even closer. The air fills with a mixture of his cologne and wet paint, and the two things, possibly my two favorite scents in the world, wallop me.

My breathing gets ragged, my chest rising and falling at an increased pace. I look up at his eyes to see that they’re hooded.

I shiver, the proximity of his body in addition to the heat in his eyes causing a riot to break out beneath my skin.

“Is this offensive?” he asks, moving closer yet again. His Adam’s apple bobs as he stands just inches from me. “I know I said I wouldn’t kiss you, and I’m trying like a motherfucker to back away right now . . .”

My brain shuts down. It’s like my body knows it’s going to set off an alarm, so it just cuts off the blood supply.

Our bodies are nearly touching. The fabric of our shirts almost colliding as we drag in labored breaths. He reaches for me and then stops, his hand dropping to his side.

Whether it’s right or wrong, I want to kiss him. I need to feel his touch. And I think he wants, and possibly needs, that from me too.

“Do you think we can manage this and not mess everything up?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says with a husk in his tone that is like a match to my libido.

“We agreed this was a bad idea.”

“No, you said it was a bad idea,” he points out. “I agreed to agree with you.”

I grin. “Well, it was a bad idea. It might be a bad idea now. But . . .”

“I have one stipulation,” he says softly.

My stomach clenches at the tenderness in his voice. My legs are heavy. Every piece of my body from head to toe readies in anticipation of Penn.

He reaches down and places a hand on my hip, his fingers wrapping to the small of my back. I gasp at the contact of his palm cradling a part of me I usually hide from people.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“If I kiss you, you cannot look at me like you did last time.” He dips his head so he’s looking at me dead in the eye. “If you can’t promise me that, I will walk away.”

I know what he means. I know exactly how I looked at him the last time, and the fact that it apparently still bothers him makes my body sag into his touch.

“I promise,” I say.

He takes his sweet time guiding me in front of him. His other hand cups my other hip and lights my body on total fire. Every cell is singed with heat and sensation overload.

I’ll never be the same after this.

“Let’s roll with it, then,” he whispers.

That line, those five little words are enough to make me remember what else I wanted to talk to him about.