Trouble (Dogwood Lane 3)
The thought makes me sad.
“I’m sorry, Penn.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He looks at the floor for a brief second. When he turns around, he tries to smile. “She was a cool lady. I mean, she had to be to be my mom, right?”
“Absolutely.”
We exchange a grin that feels more intimate than anything we’ve ever shared. Not that we’ve shared much, but something passes between us in that moment that hasn’t before.
He meanders through the room. Occasionally he stops and inspects a piece of trim or knocks on a wall. Mostly, though, he’s quiet. As the seconds pass, I watch the somberness of the conversation before it evaporates into thin air. In its place is the cool confidence I’ve come to expect from him.
Even when he’s quiet, he oozes it. Every movement he makes is filled with a self-assuredness that’s magnetic. And despite the delicious outside package, that’s the biggest turn-on. That is my Achilles’ heel in a nutshell: the man who can handle anything.
And Penn definitely looks like he can handle anything.
As I think of him handling me, I shiver.
He stretches his muscled arms over his head. The white T-shirt pulled across his body has me wondering what he looks like without it. The hem lifts just enough to give me a glimpse of his tanned stomach, and I have to look away or else run the risk of losing all control.
“Anyway,” he says through a yawn, “the last time I was in this room was to get a badge for first aid.”
He gazes at me as I lower my chin. Looking at him through my lashes, I laugh.
“Is there a joke coming about mouth-to-mouth?” I ask.
He grins, dropping his arms to his sides. “No. But I love that your mind went there.”
“It’s just what I’ve come to expect from you.”
“I do know CPR. Want me to demonstrate?”
Yes. “No,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. “I don’t. That’s not what I was saying.”
He pretends to study me. He works his bottom lip between his teeth as he narrows his eyes and scans me from head to toe. Finally, his lip pops free.
“Nah, I think it was,” he insists.
“No, it wasn’t.”
He lays his head to the side as he takes me in. “You know what I really think?”
“Bet you’re going to tell me.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. There’s something carnal, almost lascivious about it. My feet stop swinging.
My palms are slick, threatening to slide off the edge of the table as I deal with being in his sights. His gaze is heavy, invested, even, and it’s the most delicious discomfort, having his attention on me. Because it’s all right here, squarely on my shoulders. There’s no doubt he’s thinking only about me.
Holy shit.
He takes a step toward me. “I think you want me to make a joke about mouth-to-mouth.”
“I do not.”
The air fills with his scent, the temperature rising out of nowhere. The back of my neck prickles with excitement as he takes another step toward me.
“I think you do, Ave. And I think I did woo you last night, even though you’re denying it.”
My mouth goes dry as he gets closer. “You didn’t woo me. Not even close.”
My heart skips a beat. Then two. The grin on his face tells me he’s unfazed by my refusal to admit my attraction. The fire in my belly tells me I’m unfazed by it too.
I’m lying. We both know it. And if he doesn’t keep his distance, I don’t know how long I can keep it up.
“Fine,” he says. “I didn’t. But you wanted me to.” He stands just inches away from me, armed with a killer smile. “Come to think of it, I think you wanted me to do a lot more than that.”
My lips part. My brain shoots a laundry list of things to fire his way. It’s a list brimming with words like “no” and “ha” and “you wish.” Instead, I find myself wishing he’d reach out and touch me.
What would it hurt? My legs spread apart as he comes even closer. Any logic I might’ve had is marred by the anticipation of feeling his hands on my body.
He grins a devilish smile, his eyes hooded as he watches me from above. He plants his large hands on either side of me.
Memories of the night we shared, details I thought I’d forgotten, come buzzing back. The feeling of his weight on me. The softness of his lips against the side of my neck. The roughness of his voice as he growled my name.
“Are you tired of pretending you don’t want me?” he asks.
“No.”
“Come on, Avery.”
It’s less of a plea and more of a taunt—a lure from a man who knows exactly what he does to me.
Because he does it to everyone. And I don’t want to be another notch, even for Penn.