Her breathing changes. Shallower, faster. Pupils dilating. We're too close now. Close enough to see her pulse at her throat, fast and visible.
I'm losing control of this situation fast, real fast.
Just as I'm about to lean down to kiss her, Tate's eyes widen, and she yelps, backing away from me and looking down.
That fucking cat has just slithered in the space between our feet. It either has diabolical timing or it's the very spawn of the devil. Maybe even both.
"I should—" Tate's voice catches. She clears her throat and tries again. "Delivery coming. Books. For the cafe. They're coming at eight."
"Right."
Tate rushes upstairs to her apartment as if the devil is on her heels.
If I don't move, if I let her go inside and close that door, this moment ends, and I'll spend the rest of the day wondering what would've happened if I'd?—
Fuck it.
4
TATE
I'm inside my apartment with the door closed, and my back pressed against it, my heart doing something that feels less like beating and more like trying to escape through my ribcage.
That was close. Tom just told his ex-girlfriend he likes me—likes me, present tense, a lot.
Thankfully, William Shakespurr saved me. So I ran. Like an adult. Like a reasonable person who makes good decisions. I ran away from the man I've been fighting with because I wanted to kiss him, climb him like a tree, and maybe see if his veiny hands actually know how to please a woman.
Oh God.
My brain keeps replaying the way his eyes dropped to my mouth, and how my core clenched in response. Even without checking, I know I'm wet, probably already dripping by now.
This is fine. I'm fine. I just need to calm down and think about this rationally.
But…
What would've happened if I hadn't run? If I let him kiss me? If I closed that last few inches myself?
Everything would've changed.
Two knocks on my door make me jump hard enough that I bite my tongue. You'd think I was in one of those horror movies where the serial killer is on the other side and carrying a machete.
But no.
It's just Tom.
I know it's him, and I know exactly what's going to happen when I open this door. Am I ready for that? Am I ready for him? Just yesterday, he was my enemy—at least in my head—and everything that happened in the past hour is still giving me whiplash.
Opening the door is the mother of all bad ideas. It means crossing a line I can never uncross.
I open it anyway.
Tom stands on my landing. I almost wish he looked smug—that familiar, infuriating arrogance. I know how to spar with that. I can handle sharp words. I can handle a smirk.
What I can't handle is this.
His gaze drags over me, slow and apologetic.
Heat crawls up my spine under the weight of it, and my fingers curl against the doorframe. His jaw tightens, throat shifting as he swallows. His eyes become darker, steadier, hungrier.