Page 66 of Holding On To Good

“Was that the part you enjoyed?” he asked, getting closer and closer, so intense and unrelenting that she gave in and took a step back. Then another. Then a third, until her spine met the edge of the counter. “Miles telling you how pretty you look? Him touching your arm and making you laugh?”

“Of course I enjoyed it,” she said with a small smile, poking him, just a little, for his bad attitude. For acting pissed off, for sounding jealous when he had no right to be either. For confusing her even more. “Have you seen your brother?”

Urban’s gaze went molten. “You want Miles?”

His words, gruff and low, skimmed over her and she couldn’t find her voice. Could only stand there, frozen, as she remembered, with sudden, vivid clarity, the feel of his hair under her fingers, the softness of the thick strands. She wanted to touch it again, wanted to trace her fingertip across the fullness of his eyebrow, the wiriness of his beard.

She curled her fingers into her palm.

When it came to Urban, she always wanted more than she could have.

“Willow,” he said, ducking his head so they were eye to eye. But that also put them mouth to mouth, and she couldn’t help but drop her gaze, just for a moment, to his lips. Couldn’t help but remember that, too. The feel of his mouth against hers. “Do you want Miles?”

She shook her head. No. No, she didn’t want Miles.

What terrified her was what she did want.

Who she’d always wanted.

“Say it,” he demanded softly.

“I don’t want Miles.” She stopped. Swallowed. “Would it bother you?” she whispered, unable to stop herself. “If I did?”

His expression tightened. “You’re my friend.”

“I could be your friend and be with Miles. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“They are to me.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “I can’t see you with Miles,” he finally said.

“You mean you can’t see someone who looks like him with someone who looks like me.”

To be honest, neither could Willow. Miles went for curvy, gorgeous, could-be-and-sometimes-were lingerie models.

Not lanky blondes with freckles who’d been cursed with cuteness.

And, she’d like to point out, a terrific personality.

Her mother said so.

Urban grabbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean I couldn’t see you two as a couple.”

“No?”

“I can’t see you with my brother,” he said again, lowering his hand and tapping his fist against the counter. Tap… tap… tap…

Stepping forward, she laid her hand on his, stopping the tap…tap…tap. “I’m not Miles’s type. I get it.”

He stared down and she followed his gaze to the sight of her hand on his. His skin was tan, his knuckles scraped and scarred and so very masculine compared to her pale skin, slender fingers and shiny, albeit chipped, blue nails.

Throat tight, she slowly withdrew her hand, her breath hitching when he caught her gently by the wrist.

She was sure he could feel her pulse jump through the delicate skin, and when she lifted her gaze, he was watching her.

“I don’t want to see it,” he said softly.

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