Page 70 of Snap Shot

Whether he'll agree to everything else, I'm not sure. Fear tells me he'll think it's too much, that I'm not worth the trouble. But something in the hollow core of my heart hopes to prove fear wrong.

Me:Got the results. Where and when can we talk?

The response is swift.

Gym Guy:How about my place at 8?

My thumbs hover and dawdle over the screen. There's no going back after this.

Me:I'll be there.

A hooded trench coat and dark sunglasses slip me past the loitering paparazzi unnoticed. The rain seems to have sent most of them packing. Security doesn't give me a hard time, either. Butterflies put on their best gymnastic performance in my belly as the elevator climbs to the top floor.

They don't calm when Landon opens the door wearing a relieved smile. A long-sleeved black tee molds to his shoulders, chest, and arms, the right size to show off every cut of muscle but loose enough that it doesn't look like he's headed to the gym.

“You're here.” It's almost sheepish, the way he tucks his hands into those jeans, the way his eyes scan up and down in my direction. The light fixture above us makes them sparkle, bluer than usual and I swim in their welcome. His socked feet have my smile matching his.

Words are suddenly difficult to produce. I've arrived for battle, and he's already disarmed me. “Yeah.”

“Oh” —he holds his hands out— “can I take your coat?”

I loosen the belt tie and set my work bag down to unbutton it, sliding it off one arm and then the other.

Landon closes his eyes for the briefest second before blowing out a breath. “Do you ever wear pants?”

“What do you mean?” I frown, inspecting my unremarkable pencil skirt. “It's summer. Summer is for skirts. It's too hot and humid for pants.”

He smirks over his shoulder from where he hangs my trench in the front closet. “Are you telling me to take my pants off?”

“Shut up.” I roll my eyes by instinct.

“'Cause I'll do it. I don't care. I have nothing to hide.”

My smile widens as he nears.

“I didnotsay that.” A sputtered laugh seeps past my lips.

“It sounds like you did.”

“Okay, enough!” My hands fly up to nix the idea. “We're supposed to have a serious discussion.”

“Right. Sorry.” Landon's gaze switches from my eyes to my mouth.

The nervous swallow I take is like eating sand. Dry sand.

“Could” —I cough— “could I have some water?”

He grins like he knows its effect on me. “Sure.”

After an awkward, silent stroll to the kitchen, I down the offered glass of water, as if the short, indoor walk was a desert marathon.

Landon leans back on the counter, much like the last time we stood in these spots opposite each other. His hands curl over the edge of the marble top. I rehearsed this part. An embarrassing number of times. It's written in my phone's notes in case I need backup.

“I have a counteroffer.”

His brows raise halfway up his forehead. “Go on.”

“There are rules.” The glass in hand clinks against stone as I set it down and straighten, feigning confidence with stiff shoulders.

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