Page 26 of Caught from Behind

Her eyes flick down then back up. “And you are?”

I shake my head. “The cold doesn’t bother me.”

“Who are you?” she teases and something in me eases. Because the sparkle is back in her eyes. “Elsa? Let it gooo,” she sings.

“Hilarious.” I grunt then nudge her backward a little further so that I can close the door behind me.

She waggles her brows. “I can keep you warm.”

I still, hold her gaze. “We tried that.”

And she had to get drunk in order to crawl into my bed.

Her head tilts toward the big table that’s littered with board game wreckage and empty glasses. “I only had one,” she says. “I’m in complete control of my faculties.” She stretches out an arm, bends it at the elbow, touching her finger to her nose like she’s mid-sobriety test. “See?” Her lips twitch. “I can even recite the alphabet backwards or walk in a straight line.” When I don’t immediately respond, she hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “Want to see?”

I study her closely, throat suddenly tight.

She’s sparkling, fucking beautiful in this light, and so damned full of life, but?—

The words won’t come free.

I just keep hearing all of the excuses I’ve held tight to from the first moment I met her.

This is wrong.

This can’t be.

This…

“Okay,” she adds softly, “maybe I can’t walk in a straight line, but I’m not able to do that completely sober anyway.” She winks and holds up her arm, showing me a bruise there. “See? The corner of the cabinet just jumped out to hurt me.” A shrug. “So, don’t hold the lack of coordination part against me.”

Still, the words won’t come.

Not as her smile flattens out.

Not when the teasing in her eyes fades and her arm drops back down to her side.

Not even when she takes a step away from me, embarrassment edging into her expression, and starts to turn away.

CHAPTER NINE

Ella

Right.

This is enough.

Too much, really.

I’m not?—

Well, I’m old enough and experienced enough to not keep tossing myself into the emotional blender. I was dumb to try again—fool me once and all that.

I start to turn away.

“Where’d you get that one?”

Before I can ask get what and where, soft fingers are capturing my elbow, turning me back toward him. He halts then with excruciating gentleness and lifts the sleeve of my T-shirt. Frowning, I glance down, see a bruise blooming on the outside of my arm.

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