Page 26 of Too Hostile

I liked him better when he was just an arrogant shithead.

Okay, not really.

“Like people who could fire me,” I say with no hint of joking in my voice because it’s simply not funny. It could very well happen.

“They’d fire you for running?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or not, so I stop my jog and face him.

“Fletcher.”

He stops running too and cocks his head to the side innocently, but I don’t really buy it. “I’m serious.” He laughs, which tells me he isn’t really. “They aren’t going to fire you for running next to me.”

“They could. I’m a professor at the college. You are a student.”

“Not a student,” he quickly corrects, and I groan, leaning my head back and looking up at the sky, I guess for strength or something. But the clouds and the sun give me nothing.

“Whatever. Let’s just run,” I concede because there’s really no arguing with Fletcher.

He shrugs it off easily, and we take off again. It’s a brisk run, and it feels good. All my muscles ache, and my chest puffs with air as I breathe through it, but there’s a runner’s high like none other pumping through my veins by the time we circle back to my house.

We’re both out of breath and sweaty when we reach the sidewalk in front of my house. We both stop and stare at the door, then Fletcher looks at me with those big hopeful eyes. “You know, the polite thing to do would be to invite me in for some water.”

He doesn’t want water.

We both know it.

We’d be going in for one thing and one damn thing only. It’s crossing a line. One I shouldn’t. One I really can’t.

At least, if I’m smart.

But I feel nothing but stupid when I nod my head slowly and motion for him to follow me, my heart racing for a whole new reason and my throat so dry with anticipation, I can’t form actual words.

We go into my house, and I lock the door as if someone might follow us. It’s insane. It’s so damn quiet on my block most of the time, but especially in summer. We didn’t pass anyone when we were on our run, but that doesn’t mean the paranoia isn’t there, which should tell me how wrong this is. But I can’t say no.

I can’t deny myself this moment with him, and I don’t know why.

All I know for certain is I haven’t wanted to kiss someone so damn badly before in my life, but I do resist that. Thank fuck.

I walk into my kitchen and pull open the fridge, pulling out two bottles of water and handing one of them to him when he joins me. “This place is nice.”

I look around at the sparsely decorated home with wood floors. It is nice. I love it here. And I invited a student into it. My home.

“This is a bad idea,” I say carefully.

Fletcher seems to ignore that completely, though, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of water and downing damn near half of it. I try not to watch the way his throat flexes each time he swallows, and I open my own bottle, taking a large gulp.

“Fletcher...” I try again, but he just places his bottle of water on the counter and walks closer to me. My heart stutters in my chest. He’s so damn beautiful, I swear it hurts.

“Why?” He stops in front of me, the tip of his tennis shoes touching mine as he reaches for my bottle of water and takes it from me, placing it next to his.

“Why is it a bad idea that you’re in my house right now?” I ask, astonished that he’d even need to ask. But I know it’s more for my benefit. “You know why,” I barely manage to say.

His hand trails down the middle of my shirt, my sweat making the fabric stick against my skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” His eyes flick up to mine. “About that kiss.”

“The kiss that shouldn’t have happened,” I say, wrapping my hand around his wrist and halting his movement.

“Because you didn’t enjoy it?”

“No,” I answer instantly. No point in lying.

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