Finding Him (Covet 2)

She reached out and pressed her right heavily gauzed hand to my chin and swiped. “I figured you weren’t saving that.”

“What?”

“Two wasteful drops of whiskey, on your chin.” She pointed with her paw while I scowled and looked away.

Maybe it was the two shots, maybe it was something else, maybe it was even the magic of Mom still existing within the walls of that cabin, but I found myself hating the way Keaton saw me and my life.

What was worse, I hated that she was half right.

I was that guy.

I had always been that guy.

And that guy got completely screwed, so who was I now? That was the question, wasn’t it? I no longer had this need for my father’s approval, I owned part of the company, and now I had no fiancée, no pet—not that I’d even had one to begin with—had just moved into a new apartment, and everything felt . . .

Empty.

“I have a thought,” I said before I could stop myself.

“Is that what you call it when a light bulb appears over your head?” she teased.

I ignored her and pressed on. “We owe it to each other to stop making snap judgments and just . . . get to know one another.”

“Sounds like a date to me.”

“If dating means we’re napping this afternoon, playing a wild game of chess, and then eating dinner together, sure, but typically I like to be more adventurous on my dates.”

“Adventurous like getting chased by an elk?”

“Still stuck on that?”

She held up her hands.

“Right.” I smiled at her. “Too soon?”

“You think?”

My smile just widened. “We’re stuck here and we may as well find a way to get along. No blood was shed during chapter one, do you think we can manage to sheathe the claws when we’re not writing too?”

“That depends . . .” She leaned in.

I sucked in a sharp breath and waited like an idiot.

“What are you cooking for dinner?”

“What makes you think I’m cooking?”

She showed me her hands again.

“You can use your mouth still,” I pointed out.

“And you can shut yours,” she fired back. “I like pasta.”

“Me too.”

Neither of us moved.

I sighed. “Fine, I’ll play you for it.”

“What are we playing?”

I shot her an evil grin. “Strip poker. Whoever keeps the majority of their clothes on wins.”

“I know how it works.” She rolled her eyes. “I also know that the game could go on forever.”

“Five hands.”

“Just five?”

“Just five.” I eyed her up and down. “And right now it looks like at the very worst you’ll be out an ugly sweater, furry socks, and leggings that have holes in them.”

That earned me a glare straight from the pits of hell.

“First off, I like my sweater, second, the socks keep me warm, and third, we all have our favorite sweats!”

“Not all of us.” I grinned. “Tell me, are you the sort of girl who wears workout clothes but doesn’t even have a gym membership?”

Her cheeks reddened.

“Hmm . . .” I winked. “Do you always blush when you’re uncomfortable?”

“Guhhhhhhh.” She threw her hands up. “Fine, we play five hands. Also it should be noted, I’m a savant with numbers.”

“I’m a Mensa member, but cool story.”

“You can’t see because of the gauze, but I’m holding up both middle fingers and praying you get syphilis.”

“And you can’t see inside my head, but I’m already celebrating my victory, hope you know how to cook with paws.”

She stuck out her tongue and stood. “Where are the cards?”

I almost said, “Where they always are,” but I realized quickly this wasn’t a thing, me and her vacationing here, or even hanging out here. She wasn’t family, she wasn’t anything.

Just a perfect stranger.

A really pretty one.

“In the top drawer of the coffee table. You’ll find a few stacks, choose wisely, you never know if I’ve marked the deck.”

“If you were a Mensa member you wouldn’t have to,” she argued.

I burst out laughing. “Get ready to strip.”

“Bet that works on none of the girls.” She grabbed the cards and made her way back to the kitchen table.

“It works on enough of them.” I gave her a smug grin.

“Gross.”

I leaned close and captured her gaze. “Keaton, I can guarantee you that gross is not a word ever exchanged between me and any female. More like Wow, oh God—”

The paw was back, this time covering my mouth. “Stop talking and deal.”

I grinned against the medicinal gauze and nodded my head. She pulled her hand back, and her eyes darted away.

And I had to wonder if I made her uncomfortable, or if she was suddenly skittish because she’d touched me and—even with an injured hand—liked it a little too much.

Chapter Fifteen

KEATON

The heart wants what it wants. I knew that better than anyone, but my heart wasn’t the issue. It was my eyes and my treacherous body and the way it felt a hit of adrenaline each time Julian touched me.