Steady.
He pushes off the counter.
And suddenly he’s closer.
Not touching.
But close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him.
Close enough that the air shifts.
Close enough that my pulse stutters in a way that is frankly embarrassing for a grown woman.
“You don’t seem impressed,” he says.
“With what?”
He gestures vaguely to himself.
“The DJ Mars of it all.”
I huff.
“I devour monster romances on my lunch break, David. You being famous is like maybe third on the fantasy scale.”
That earns me a real laugh.
Low. Warm.
It does something unfair to my insides.
He steps closer.
Now we’re standing at the sink, the faint scent of lemon dish soap mixing with whatever clean, expensive cologne he’s wearing.
I can see the faint stubble along his jaw. The tiny scar near his eyebrow. The way his eyes darken when he looks at my mouth.
And oh God.
He’s looking at my mouth.
My breath catches.
He notices.
Of course, he notices.
His hand comes up—slowly—like he’s giving me time to object.
He doesn’t touch my face.
Just brushes a loose curl away from my cheek, tucks it behind my ear.
The contact is barely there.
But it feels like lightning.
My heart is pounding so loud I’m positive he can hear it.