There’s that small detail of me being unable to stop touching her, especially since she’s so responsive. The pad of my thumb is still at the base of her neck. Her pulse is, if possible, even more frantic.
“Any general house rules?” she asks, her voice uneven.
“None that I can think of. Except...I usually go to sleep very late and then wake up late in the mornings.”
“Makes sense, since the bar and the restaurants open and close late.”
“Yeah. I’m a light sleeper in the morning, so if you sing in the shower—”
“I don’t.”
An image of Clara in the shower pops in my mind. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to see that, to join her. Not going there. Not going there.
Lowering my hand, I skim it down her arm. Her skin turns to goose bumps under my touch, and she sucks in a breath. Her reaction to me is intoxicating, makes it hard to keep my thoughts in line, even harder not to touch her more, see what other reactions I can provoke.
Jesus, this is escalating far too easily. We’ve spent time with each other before, so why is this spinning out of control so fast?
We’re saved by the bell—in this case, the sound of a message on my phone.
“The bar manager needs me,” I tell Clara, reading his message. “Have to go downstairs. When exactly do you have to move out of your apartment?”
“The end of this week.”
“Okay. You can keep this set of keys, I have another one.”
“Thanks.”
I lean in to kiss her cheek, and because I can’t help it, I linger with my lips on her skin a beat too long. She shudders lightly, her breath coming out almost on a moan. The things I’d do to this woman. I’d taste every inch of her skin, every—fuck me.
I step back right away.
“Come on, I’ll walk you to your car, almost-neighbor.”
As we leave the apartment, I have a eureka moment and a plausible explanation for the sudden shift in tension between us. Before we mostly saw each other at family events; we were rarely alone. As neighbors sharing a balcony, we will rarely not be alone. Turns out it’s a dangerous move to ask a woman you’re drawn to far too much to move next door.
CHAPTER THREE
Clara
“Clara, Quentin is asking for you.” Mona motions with her head in the direction of our lunch buffet. My boss, Quentin Meyer, is hovering in front of it, loading his plate.
“Thanks, Mona.”
She shudders almost imperceptibly, then heads to the buffet herself, keeping her distance from Quentin. Nearing his forties with a nasty smile and permanently wandering eyes, most of the women at the studio do their best to avoid him. But alas, he’s my boss, so I’m the one person who can’t do that. I make a point to never wear anything even remotely sexy at work.
“Hey, boss,” I say, loading a plate for myself. “Mona said you need me.”
“Yes, yes. How well do you know the Bennett family?”
I pause in the act of biting into my burger. Maybe it’s because Quentin watches me with his trademark nasty smile, but I don’t feel like volunteering the truth.
“Not well at all, why?”
We move toward a corner of the room because it’s getting crowded over at the buffet.
“You were at Alice Bennett’s wedding. Someone tagged you on Facebook.” He bites into his own burger, and my stomach plummets. I take a big bite, using the excuse of chewing so I don’t have to answer right away so I can form a plan. Damn Facebook. I thought I had my settings on private so only friends could see what I post or what I’m tagged in.
“Of course I went. Nate and I are good friends, but that’s all.”