Page 17 of Reckless Vow

In fact, my body flips me off with all its reactions: shallow breath, pounding heart, drenched pussy, goosebumps, and I’m pretty sure sometime between leaving the kitchen and now I started running a fever.

His eyes darken with something. If I was naïve, I’d call it lust. We stare at each other for I don’t know how long before he cocks his head as if in question.

Oh, right, yes, we need to talk. We need to put a stop to this stupid scheme. Don’t we?

I clear my throat. “I like to dance the stress off.”

Yes, explain yourself to him. Because he invaded your privacy, spied on you during a private moment, and you owe him an explanation.Go, Brook.

“I can see that.”

That’s all he says, but my body rejoices at hearing his voice like he’s just complimented me. What’s wrong with me?

Everything. Everything is wrong with me when it comes to him.

I fold my arms across my chest, mirroring him. Only I’m not, because his stance is casual while I’m gearing up for a fight. To protect myself.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I have business in New York, and I came to visit Mom.”

I was referring to my room, but okay, let’s broaden it up.

“You couldn’t have picked a better time.” I meant it as a question, I think. My tone is laced with sarcasm, so it came out as a statement. Or an accusation.

“There has never been a good time to return.” He pushes off the frame and steps closer, shutting the door.

My childhood room is still very much like I left it, with all the signs of my teenage personality. A poster of One Direction, pink and white throw pillows, a collection of mugs and my murder mystery paperbacks.

I didn’t bother to redecorate it since I came back, because what for? With Baldo stepping inside, I regret that neglect. The room—and me by extension—just feels more pathetic.

Like he went into the big world and made something of himself, carrying his experience with swagger, while I stayed in my old pink, girlie room, with nothing to show for the past nine years.

The rational me knows it’s not true, but his presence is overwhelming and all-consuming, not leaving much space for logic.

He came to this room before—many times in secret—and in some sense it feels the same. My body trembles, my mouth goes dry.

Only years ago, I’d have jumped up to lock the door and wrap my arms around his neck. Today, I want to yank the door open to get more oxygen and wrap my hands around his throat.

And squeeze.

Okay, I don’t want that. I want him to squeeze his hands around my neck. Pleasant shivers shudder through me and I barely stifle a moan. What the hell?

He narrows his eyes. “Are you okay?”

Unsuccessful stifle then. “Sure. Do you want to go downstairs and talk?” That sounded reasonable, I think. An exit strategy.

“In a hurry to see me out?” He smirks and takes another step in.

It takes all my willpower not to step back. No way in hell am I going to show him that he affects me.

I snort. “Ah, look, and I thought you lost all common sense.”

He takes another step, and his scent hits my nose. For fuck’s sake, no break with this man. And why is my room so small? Has it always been like this?

We’re so close now, he has to look down at me. I will my eyes to meet his, anxiety causing my tongue to dart out to lick my lips.

A fucking mistake.

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