Page 57 of Sin Bin

“Don’t make me encourage you. I just worked out and I’msweaty.”

“Nowthere’sa threat,” she says, still laughing. Her dark eyes fix on my chest, and the close scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. I’m good with everything as long as it remains surface-level. No drudging up the past. No deep talks about thefuture.

But then Zoe leans in close, and her free hand lands on my chest, just over my heart. Maybe it’s accidental, but her nail scrapes across my pectoral muscle, and desire shoots straight to my groin. Her lips find my right ear, and she whispers, “You’re right, Andre. You are such a god among men. Which is why I need you to do exactly as I say if you don’t want to end up a mere mortal like the restofus.”

Then, she firmly plants her hand on my chest and pushes her way into myhouse.

ChapterSixteen

ZOE

My heart hammersin my chest as I step insideAndre’shome.

I hate the way he can push me to my limits within just five minutes of being in his presence. I hate the way he can turn my dislike for him into something that feels a lot more likelust.Want.

More.

All right, I’ll be honest—I want more of Andre, more of the guy who stuck up for me in front of Walter Collins, more of the guy who makes me feel giddy with laughter. But he’s not willing to open up, so wanting anything more really doesn’t do muchforme.

My gaze latches onto a photograph on an entryway table, and the sound of my stilettos beating into the marble floor quiets as I roll to a stop. Bright blue eyes blink back at me from within the frame. The kid is maybe two years old, more toddler than anything else, with a bright smile and messybrownhair.

“Your nephew?” I ask Andre over my shoulder. “He’scute.”

Andre moves silently toward the table, his hand outreached. His long, tapered fingers pause mere inches from the black frame, before curling into a fist. “Yeah.” His arm falls back to his side. “Heis.”

One quick look at his face tells me that he’s uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I want to pry, to dig a little deeper into why his mouth has flat-lined, but I doubt I’ll getanywhere.

Andre Beaumont is not a talker, something I learned quite well in his car the othernight.

With one last glance at the young boy, I twist away and motion to the house’s grand entryway. The ceiling is twenty-feet tall, and a wrought-iron spiral staircase winds up to the second floor. A decorative chandelier hangs about four feet above my head. “You sure decided to live in style when you came to Boston,didn’tyou?”

His house back in Detroit was a lot more modest. A historic Victorian that had seen better days, but it was cozy and sleepy, a perfect place for a man who spent the majority of his year ontheroad.

“It works for now,” Andre tells me. He shows me his back as he heads into the room next door, which turns out to be thekitchen.

To hell with it—I can’t help but pry, just a little. “Because this is your last season? And you have no plans to stickaround?”

The look he gives me would probably cower a lesser person, but I know Andre, both as a person as well as in the biblical sense. So, I stand my ground and wait him out. He’ll give in. Healwaysdoes.

With a sigh, he runs his fingers through his messy, black hair. “You’re annoying as all hell sometimes, youknowthat?”

I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much. Out loud, I say, “Someone sounds cranky thismorning.”

His mouth pulls down. “I justworkedout.”

Against my better judgment, I let myself drink in his appearance. He wasn’t lying when he said he was sweaty. His cheeks are still flushed from activity, his T-shirt damp with perspiration. As always, his jaw is unshaven, and I have the absurd urge to walk up to him and run my hand over the stubble. To see if it’s as abrasive to the touch as itlooks.

“If you only came here to ogle me, Zoe, I would have at least showeredforyou.”

The sound of Andre’s voice snaps me out of my (ahem) blatant perusal, and heat warms my cheeks. “That’s not—I mean,I’mnot. . . ”

“You are,” he returns silkily, “andyoudid.”

I wave my hand at his body, as if that’s answer enough. Words, beautiful things that they are, have fled mybrain.

Andre’s mouth tugs up into a rare grin, and he kicks away from the counter to swagger over to me. And, yes, it’s a swagger. Hips slung low, chin dipped down. At the look of intent in his dark eyes, alarm bells spring into magnifying gongs, warning meto back the hell up andescape.

I don’t have thechance.

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