“I’m fine,” I grit out.
“Are you? Because you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”
Clare turns to look between us, confusion flickering across her face, and I can practically see her putting the pieces together. The tension in my body. The way my hands have tightened on her waist. The reason I don’t want her moving.
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed immediately by a blush that spreads from her cheeks down her throat.
“Oh,” she breathes.
“Yeah.Oh.”
“Maybe I should—”
“Don’t you dare move,” I warn, my voice low and rough with the effort of maintaining control. “Not unless you want to give my entire family a show they didn’t sign up for,” I whisper.
She goes perfectly still in my lap, and somehow that’s even worse. Now I’m hyperaware of every breath she takes, every tiny shift of her weight, every point where her body connects with mine.
“This is a family-friendly game night,” Evan observes, still grinning like the bastard he is.
“I’m doing my best here,” I growl.
“Are you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re about to lose a very different kind of game.”
Mom chooses that moment to notice the tension crackling around the table. “Everything all right over there?”
“Fine!” Clare and I say in unison, which only makes Evan’s grin widen.
“Just some strategic discussion,” I add lamely.
“Strategy,” Evan repeats. “Sure.”
Clare clears her throat and reaches for the dice with careful, deliberate movements that somehow manage to torture me further. “Shall we continue the game?”
Right. The game. The one where I pretend I can concentrate on anything other than the woman in my lap and the growing certainty that I’m completely screwed.
Not just for tonight.
For as long as Clare Johnson exists in my orbit, making me forget why keeping my distance was ever a good idea.
Chapter Sixteen
Late Night Wisdom
Clare
The stairs creak under our feet as we head up to bed, the sound echoing in the quiet house. Everyone else has scattered—Evan gathering the kids, Maddie yawning her way to the guest room, and Karen and Tom doing their nightly rounds of locking doors and saying goodnight.
Mitch walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush with every step, and I’m hyperaware of the tension radiating from his body. Game night left us both wound tight, the memory of sitting in his lap still buzzing under my skin like electricity.
“That was...” I start, then trail off, unsure how to finish.
“Torture,” he supplies, his voice rough.
Heat floods my cheeks. We’re talking about it—acknowledging that the fake relationship charade became very real very quickly tonight.
We reach his bedroom door, and he stops, running a hand through his hair in that gesture I’ve learned means he’s fighting some internal battle.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “A long one.”