Oh. That’s a good cover story. He must’ve anticipated I’d look like shit this morning.
“Better,” I lie. “Much better.”
I reach for the syrup at the same time Caleb does, because the universe is a sadist. Our fingers brush. And it’s immediately electric. As if he wired a taser straight into my bloodstream.
He jerks his hand back like I burned him.
Dad raises an eyebrow. “You two seem jumpy this morning.”
Cue internal freak out.
But Caleb, bless his smooth-talking soul, recovers instantly.
“Sorry,” he says, shooting me a quick glance that’s way too innocent to be legal. “Still worried about Harper. You know how it is with siblings.”
Oof. The word.Siblings.
Helen beams like we’re the Brady Bunch. “It’s so sweet how protective you are already. Like you’ve been family your whole lives.”
Lady, if you only knew.
I stab my pancakes and even manage a few bites just to keep up the act. But under the table?—
Caleb’s hand finds mine.
His fingers close around mine gently, like a question. And then he starts rubbing little circles into my palm with his thumb. My fingers go white knuckled around my fork. Jesus, does he know what that’s doing to me? A glance his way at the subtle smirk on his face says,yes, yes, he does.
And he’s still doing it anyway.At the family breakfast table.
Dad starts griping about chores, and Caleb cuts him off, still holding my hand. “Give her a break, will ya? She hasn’t been feeling well.”
And okay. Maybe it should bother me that my dad moves on to flirting with his new wife over bacon and pancakes while I’m still spiraling about my stepbrother, but I’m too distracted. Because under the table, Caleb’s still tracing the lines of my palm like he’s reading them. Like my future’s hiding in there.
Which,um, he seriously needs to stop doing, because?—
My breath catches. My thighs clench. Oh fuck, I amliterally three seconds away from having a full-blown orgasm at the breakfast table.
From a thumb.
He is so fucking twisted. Goddammit, I love twisted. This man is going to ruin me.
I shove back my chair so hard it screeches, yanking my hand away from his. “Gonna—um—go study!”
I make a beeline for the stairs.
Behind me, Dad mutters, “Go study? Maybe she really is sick.”
Which… fair.
Symptoms include: rapid heart rate, damp palms, inconvenient arousal, and the sudden urge to fling myself into a volcano to avoid eye contact.
I slam my bedroom door, lock it, and press my forehead to the wood.
This is a disaster.
A ridiculous giggle bubbles up from my chest, and I slap my hand over my mouth before going to turn on the shower, high blast.
A glorious, impossible disaster.