It’s not uncomfortable, but it is charged.
He searches my face like he’s trying to solve me, and I know that look from college. Usually right before he said something that made me want to throttle him. But I’ve noticed three years have changed him. Or maybe college Parker was the real Parker and I’m getting the broken Parker only because he can’t catch the ball.
I set my pen down on the table and twist my lips. “What?”
“Why were you scared at the rink?”
Every muscle in my body goes still but I keep my expression flat. “You were on the ground under me. It was… awkward.”
“Was it though?”
I don’t answer.It wasn’t awkward, it was sexual tension.
His voice softens more and somehow that makes it worse. “Annika, you panicked when I touched you.”
I run my hands over my legs. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is your session. Boundaries, remember.”
His brows rise. “That’s convenient.”
“It’s professional.”
His attention lands on me with the same intensity he uses when he’s waiting for a pass on the field. Patient. Disciplined. Impossible to ignore.
Heat rises under myskin.
“You ever get tired of hiding behind words?”
The question floats in the space between us, heavier than it should in this environment. I shift my weight, aware of the change in the air pressure in the room and how the golden light behind him blankets his shoulders.
I snap back, teasing, sort of, “Do you ever get tired of poking your nose into things you don’t understand?”
“Nah, it’s a family trait.” He lets out a gentle laugh and a lopsided smile shades his face.
“Well, this isn’t the place.”
“And yet,” he says in a husky, unhurried voice.
He stands quickly and I tense on instinct. Of course, he notices and his expression changes, just enough for me to question his intentions.
Not smug.
Not playful.
Careful as if he’s approaching with caution.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. His tone, sincere.
His words cause my ribs to knock or at least that’s how it feels. He takes one step closer.
Not enough to crowd me. But enough to change the charge between us.
“You ask me to talk about fear, pressure and anticipatory failure.” He runs his pointer finger over his lips. “You ask me to tell you what’s happening before the ball falls from my hands.”
I stand too out of fear. Because remaining seated feels like I’m surrendering—to him, to the positive and negative charge between us.