“It says ‘thank you.’”
“It says more than that.” She glances away for a moment, and when she makes eye contact again, I’m at a loss for reading them. “You don’t have to buy my silence with pretty gifts, you know. I’m not going to tell anyone about last night.”
I never doubted that, but apparently she doubted my motives. I tamp down on my cynicism. “Okay. Thanks.”
She straightens her spine. “And I’m not going to fall into bed with you because you bought me something pretty.” Early evening shade can’t dim the pink in her cheeks.
Obviously I haven’t corned the market on cynicism. “I’m glad you think it’s pretty.” I push the bag at her again. “And I’m sorry if I confused you. I’m not trying to buy anything. Not your body—which is amazing, but clearly not for sale—or your silence. Not even your forgiveness. Seriously, Kendall, I just want to say ‘sorry’ and ‘thank you.’ You looked out for a stranger. You cared enough to get involved. I like to think maybe the next time you’re feeling like no good deed goes unpunished, you’ll put on the pendant and remember someone appreciates what you did for him.”
All the pink drains out of her face. “It was nothing.”
“Not to me.”
She bites her lip, and her gaze drops to the bag I’m still holding out like a dumbass dork. What else can I say?
“There’s a gift receipt in the box, if you don’t like it…”
Her eyes find mine. “No. I like it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“Then take it. Please.” I’m not so off my game that I can’t remember to say the magic word.
Reluctantly, she lifts the bag from my hand. Skin slides over skin in the process, and I endure a quick and dirty fantasy of those hesitant fingers sliding down my chest, over my stomach, and into my jeans.
Not a chance. Maybe not, but the memory of having her back against my chest this morning comes back to tease me, and all at once I have to do better than a simple pass-off. “Wait. Hand it over,” I say, curling my fingers toward my palm.
She stops in the process of taking the box out of the bag. “What?”
“Give it here.” I reach over and pluck the box out of her hand then I crouch and put my beer on the brick patio. “Turn around.”
Her hesitant look challenges my command, but she slowly turns around. I take the pendant out of the box and put the box next to the bottle. Then I stand, step close to her—close enough to smell the clean, herbal scent of her shampoo—and drape the pendant around her neck. The key slips low into the three-button front of her shirt for a moment. The very tip nestles between her breasts, and the poke of her nipples through the cotton tells me I’m not the only one who enjoys the unintentional detour. I lean closer to secure the clasp, and the wispy hairs on the back of her neck flutter in the breeze created by my breath.
“H-have you got it?”
Her body heat scorches through my shirt. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, and her backside brushes the front of my jeans. I force myself to keep my hands on the clasp and not drop them to her hips to hold her in place while I grind my painfully eager cock into the cushion of her ass.
There are a hundred girls in your phone who will fuck you up, down, and sideways if you say the word, and you’re down here rubbing up against one who would probably slap your face for even thinking about making a move.
“Got it.” I smooth my hands over her shoulders and slowly back away.
She turns to me and touches the pendant.
“It suits you. Beautiful and delicate, but strong at the core.”
I don’t know how I expect her to react, but the uncertain look takes me by surprise.
“I’m… You really don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know when somebody rescues my sorry ass.” I’d like to know more, I almost add, but don’t because I get the feeling she’d run back inside if I uttered the words out loud. Instead I bend to pick up the box and my beer.
She takes the box from my open hand, and her fingertips feather across my palm. Her eyes lock onto mine again, hold, and something more intense than the casual contact passes between us. She tears her gaze away and looks at my house.
“You better get back. Sounds like you’ve got company again.”
I shake my head. “No company, just my roommates watching the game.”
Dark blond eyebrows lift. “Hearing impaired roommates?”
I laugh and wander to one of the wrought-iron benches lining the patio. “No. Hardcore Dodgers fans. Sorry. I don’t think they realize anyone’s here. I’ll tell them to turn it down.” On impulse I nod my head toward the house. “Come meet them.”