Page 68 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“You do realize I know what that word means.”

“Do you?” he asks with a smile in his eyes. “It’s just a term of affection. There’s no need to get carried away.”

“You use it often, then?”

“No,” he says, scratching at his stubble. No idea if he’s won an award for the most confusing man in the past. But wow is he right up there in the running this year. A definite candidate for top three. “What are your feelings for me, just out of curiosity?”

“I’m hardly going to admit to anything more than friendship with the occasional side of lust now, am I?”

He pauses. “Did you want to? Before I said what I said?”

“I don’t know,” I say, because even bravery has its limits.

“If it makes you feel any better, a relationship between us wouldn’t likely work. As Gael made a point of noting, my success rate is dire.”

I snort. “Everyone’s success rate is dire until it’s not or they decide they’d rather be alone. Not every relationship ends in disaster.”

“Beside the point. I haven’t even considered the idea of us dating because paparazzi hiding in your front garden is a nonstarter.”

“Wait a minute. You would—what?—have to sit down and make your own list to decide whether you wanted to date me? Isn’t that just the sort of thing you know?”

“No. It’s a serious question. I would need time to consider all aspects of the situation,” he repeats. But his gaze drops to the neckline of my bodysuit again and stays there a second or two. Important relationship issues aren’t the only thing on his mind, apparently.

“Hey. My eyes are also up here. You just told me off for playing it safe,” I say. “The hypocrisy.”

“I was talking about you wisely investing in some high-quality lingerie. I’ll have you know I take relationships seriously. So I suppose I could say my feelings for you are unresolved at present.”

The ability to read minds or auras or something would be so useful. Because apart from admiring my cleavage, I have no idea what’s on his mind. Not a fucking clue. “Is this about the soulmate thing? Is that why you’re reluctant to say more?”

“No.” He snorts. “I know you have your concerns, but Winnie the Witch and her predictions are nothing more than a couple of coincidences and a big pile of bullshit.”

“Good Witch Willow,” I correct. “Let me see if I understand what you’re asking. You want me to put myself out there and say I have feelings for you with no guarantee of you reciprocating?”

“Taking risks is part of life. Or you can play it safe. I know that’s more your thing. But I thought you were trying to kick that habit.” He’s taunting me. It’s obvious in the way he steps closer with a hint of a smile. “What do you say? Am I wrong about you only wanting great sex?”

“You still haven’t proven you can deliver. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“This again,” he says with disgust.

“A solid love of research is at the heart of every librarian. And information-wise, you’re giving me nothing. Zip. Zilch.”

Him and his ego will never cease to amaze me. His gaze goes hard, and his lips are a thin unimpressed line. But he doesn’t say anything. Is it wrong that his mean face thrills me? We must buy the bodysuit now. He and his general hotness have made me soak through my thong.

“Let’s deal with this once and for all, shall we?” he asks with the fakest smile. The curve of his mouth is a facade and more than a touch malicious. He grips my hips and turns me to face the nearest mirror. Then, with him pressed hard against my back, he walks me closer. “If you would stand over here, please.”

“What are you doing?”

He sniffs the curve of my neck, taking me in with a deep breath. “Fixing your lack of faith.”

“As fun as it is to get you all riled up, we can’t do this here.”

“Carolina won’t come back in until one of us calls for her. There are no security cameras. No one will know what we do.”

“Ali...”

His hands slide up my sides, fingers trailing down, tracing the edge of the lace to between my breasts. And I watch their path in the mirror. There’s something hypnotizing about standing passive in his arms while he explores me. How his fingers follow the edge of lace back up to my shoulders. And there, they stop.

He inserts a fingertip beneath one thin strap and drags it slowly over the slope of my rounded shoulder. But the bodice of the bodysuit defies gravity and stays put. He grunts in dismay and gently tugs the strap down a little lower. Nope. Too much for me, apparently. I slap my hand over my breast and hold the thin material in place.

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