Page 68 of A Little Tempting

“That won’t be necessary.” I slowly slip out of his hold, and this time, he lets me. Pushing to my feet, I wipe off my jeans with my fingertips in hopes of protecting my scraped palms from any further damage while shoving down my shame for what feels like the billionth time since first meeting Reeves. Without bothering to look at him, I announce, “I should get going. I don’t want to be late.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure your sudden rush has nothing to do with me chatting with a cute girl, am I right?”

I hesitate and look down at him still crouching at my feet. “So you do think she’s cute.”

The same deep, throaty chuckle makes my stomach coil as he stands up, but he doesn’t deny it. “Look, I know neither of us owes each other anything. But, on the off chance an itty, bitty,tinypiece of you cares that I was talking to a girl, I want to make it clear…it wasonlyfor work.”

“Work,” I repeat. “As in, your escort service.”

“Not exactly my favorite term, but if you want to call it that, then sure. She has an asshole ex, and?—”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Maybe I want to make it your business.”

Tension lines my stomach, and I shake my head. “Reeves…”

“Why don’t you call me Oliver?” he asks.

I pull back, surprised. “What?”

“You’re one of the only people on campus who knows my first name, but you never call me by it. Why?”

“Why did you tell me your real name in the first place if it’s some big secret?” I counter.

“Maybe I want you to feel special.”

“And maybe that’s the problem.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…if you go out of your way to make every single girl you come in contact with feel special, do any of them?”

With wide eyes, he squeezes the back of his neck, looking…impressed? “Well, fuck, Thorne.” He smiles. “Way to say it like it is.”

“Don’t call me Thorne,” I remind him.

“Then don’t call me Reeves.”

“Everyone calls you Reeves.”

“You’re not everyone.”

I lift a shoulder and take a step back. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Turning on my heel, I prepare to make a run for it, but his hand finds my wrist, stopping my retreat.

“What do you need, Reeves?” I ask as I stare over my shoulder, holding his gaze.

“Already told you I’m not a fan of the miscommunication trope.”

I look down at his hand keeping me in place. “And?”

“And I want to make something clear to you. It will look like we’re hooking up this weekend, but we’re not. All right?”

We.

As in Reeves and his…whatever. Client? The word feels dirty, especially when she clearly needs help, but I can’t think of another term to fit. She hired him, and who am I to care? The realization makes my stomach churn more.

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