Page 4 of Falling for Grace

Man alive, that ass. But I’m not looking at his ass anymore, nope.

He’s just turned around and now I’m staring at his groin, and I’ve acknowledged this, but yet my eyes are still staring at that area instead of looking at his face.

For fuck’s sake, brain, ENGAGE. Stop looking at his cock.

It does, but it does it so slowly, that I really rather shamelessly track my eyes up his body. It’s like I’m eye-fucking him and I can’t do anything to stop it.

This is the effect he has on me.

My brain checks out and I’m just hormones.

My cheeks are flaming; my mouth is dry.

His stomach is flat, and hiding beneath his shirt are firm abs, his chest is beautiful, and his face.

But seriously, can we just take a moment and appreciate that face again, because Oh Lord.

Sparkling green emerald eyes stare back at me and they are twinkling in the way they always did.

I could fall into that sparkle.

I could do naughty things to that sparkle.

His nose is straight, but it didn’t look that way when he was thirteen and fell off his bike smashing his face on the curb. He’s got a scar above his eyebrow, which stops the hair from growing there from where I head-butted him when we were wrestling on Danny’s bed at the age of fifteen. His lips are full and I can remember the feel of them on mine as though it happened yesterday.

Strong jaw, high cheekbones. He is beautiful. A work of art beautiful.

Hollywood beautiful.

“Hi, B.” He calls me by my pet name, which took bloody years of me begging for him to trim it down to B from my God-awful nickname Bush.

He takes four steps across the kitchen, and I barely have time to react before he grabs me in a massive bear hug, bending his head down to rest it on my shoulder and taking a huge breath.

“Hi B, yourself,” I say, throwing my arms around his shoulders. He pulls back and kisses my forehead. He always kisses me on my forehead. It makes my heart beat rapidly, and my ovaries swoon every time.

Every.

Single.

Time.

“You need help?” he says, looking at the scene of carnage in front of me.

“I’d love some help. This is the aftermath of your brother.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky there’s any salmon left to make these things,” he says, nudging my hip with his. We haven’t seen each other in a year, but we sink back into the natural comfortableness we have when we’re around each other. The flirtatious banter will come, the subtle touches. The looks.

It’s our usual routine, our yearly dance.

But I am going to be strong this year. I’m not going to do anything stupid… I toasted, remember? I will not end up in the arms of a certain someone.

Nope.

I am strong.

I am a strong and independent woman. Who does not need to sleep with Brandon Holder…Again.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asks. I glance at him, and my attention moves to his huge hands as he dollops cream cheese and dill mix onto a piece of salmon and daintily folds it over.

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