Pretty Little Thing (Central Valley U)

Hesitantly, I accept his offer and slide my hand into his. The feeling of his calloused palm against my softer one sends shivers down my spine.

This man is so, so dangerous.

He turns toward the door, and I expect him to let go of my hand, but he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t.

Orion’s made his intentions clear; he wants me. And despite telling him that it can’t happen—that we can’t happen—over and over, here I am muddying the waters by allowing him to hold my hand.

“What do you want to watch?” I ask, once we get to the living room.

“Technically, I said watch a show or something.” He grins, and my heart flutters in response. “I’m leaning more toward that option.”

“Do I get a say?”

“Always.” His voice is so serious, solemn even.

“Then give me my options and I’ll choose,” I tell him, taking back control of the situation.

He contemplates my demand for a minute and then nods to himself. “We can either veg out on the couch and watch a show—I’m currently bingeing Justified—or, I can make us some hot cocoa and we can sit on the deck and talk.”

His options both seem innocuous enough, but my overactive brain and libido kick my inner-turmoil into overdrive.

Do I want to be snuggled up next to him on the couch where our bodies will be forced to touch, or do I want to have some heart-to-heart under the starlit sky?

“Outside,” I say, because at least there, we won’t be touching.

“Sweet.” He tips his head toward the back door. “You wanna start the heater while I make us some cocoa?”

“Okay.” I flex my fingers at my sides. “I can do that.”

He flashes a panty-melting smile and then opens the back door for me. “I’ll be right out.”

“Please work fast,” I mumble, powering up the heater. It was a pretty mild day, but without the sun warming the air, it’s cold—really cold.

My teeth chatter as I wait on Orion. Maybe I should go back inside and grab a jacket…

But before I can, the back door opens again, and Orion walks out, his arms loaded down with all kinds of stuff.

“Here,” he says, passing a balled up piece of cloth to me. “Brought you this.”

I shake it out and quickly realize it’s one of his hoodies. “Oh.” I tug it on over my head, loving the way his scent clings to the cotton. “Thanks.”

“And this.” He steps closer and wraps a fleece throw around my shoulders.

“You just thought of everything, huh?”

He grins. “Nah. Otherwise, I’d have wood for the firepit.”

I plop down into one of the chairs. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

“Whipped cream?” he asks, and I jerk my gaze back toward him.

My mind swan dives into the gutter, my eyes bug out, and my cheeks burn. “What?”

Clearly, I’m in desperate need of some one-on-one time. Especially since my favorite form of relief is no longer visiting me in the VIP room.

Even worse—my desire’s apparently written all over my face. “For your cocoa, dirty girl.” He drags his heated gaze over my body, and I swear, it warms me up more than the giant heater between us.

What has gotten into me? Maybe the few hits of his cologne got me high? I’m pretty sure that’s a plausible explanation. Not like stand-up-in-court-legit, unless the jury was made up entirely of women, because then they’d definitely get it.

“Yes, please,” I mumble, averting my gaze to the mountains in the distance.

For a few minutes, we sit in silence and sip our drinks. If only I could get my riotous heart and brain to shut up, too. But like anytime I’m in his presence, they’re battling it out, with my heart trying to get me to give in to him, and my brain reminding me of all of the reasons it’s a bad idea.

“This is really good,” I say when I can’t take the quiet any more.

“I add vanilla.” He winks. “It’s something my mom always did.”

“Huh. Never would’ve thought to do that.”

“I come from a long line of geniuses.”

A laugh bubbles up from deep in my belly. “Clearly,” I say once I regain my composure.

“Apparently there’s some comedians in my ancestry, too.” He gulps down another mouthful of cocoa.

“Smartass.”

“Speaking of asses, where is it you waitress?”

Tears fill my eyes as I choke on my drink. “I’m s-s-sorry,” I wheeze, smacking my palm against my chest. “What? Why?”

Does he know? Has he been playing with me this whole time? Is this all just a game to him…am I a game to him?

My stupid brain fires off worst-case scenarios like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Orion’s brows dip as he studies me. “Maybe I want to come eat in your section. You said you were a waitress, right?”

“But what’s that have to do with my ass?” My brain is struggling to connect the dots here. I know I’m missing something, but what?