Page 46 of Eight Steps to Alpha

He took a deep breath, stepped backward, and tried to recover his heart. But damn it all he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to touch her again.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why when he kissed her did she have to respond like that? Why did his mind go blank and make him forget everything?

Like the fact she was his roommate.

Like the fact she was his best friend.

She pulled in a shaky breath, then smoothed her long hair behind her ear, and leaned back against the cupboards. “Like that,” she whispered. “Exactly like that.”

He met her eyes, searching for answers, but she gave him none.

She hopped down from the counter a moment later, filled her glass with water and took a long drink. But then she paused, and turned around to face him again. “Elliot?” she asked. Her voice hesitant, small.

He moved to the other side of the kitchen, far enough away so he wouldn’t be tempted to kiss her again. “Yeah?” he asked, his heart hammering.

“Before you think things will get weird again”—she squared her shoulders—“please understand that this is all part of the plan. You don’t like me, I don’t like you. This is all about Mary.”

His brows furrowed, and his jaw clenched, but he somehow forced himself to nod. “Of course.” But inside his gut was twisting. Did she really not feel anything? Was the spark between them really that one sided?

She looked down to her feet, nodded, then wiped her hands on the front of her jeans. “Good,” she then turned around, walked into the living room, where she began throwing the pillows back on the sofa, and gathering up all their empties. “I almost forgot it was Monday,” she said to him, her voice sounding strained and distant.

He walked toward her. “Yeah, me too.”

She handed him the shaker bottle and whiskey, but wouldn’t look up.

“Are you okay?” His heart felt like it was being ripped from his chest, and he didn’t even know why.

She toyed with the two shot glasses in her fingers and nodded again.

“Fe?”

Her eyes met his, glassy—distant. He took the glasses from her fingers. “Are you okay?” he repeated.

“Just tired,” she whispered.

He wanted to press her for more. To ask her why she looked so sad. To demand she talk to him. But he was afraid. Afraid of what she’d say—afraid of— “Go to bed, Fe.” He turned toward the kitchen, taking in a much needed breath. “I got this.” He hated the gruffness of his own voice, the coolness of it, but he couldn’t help it.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He placed the glasses in the sink, then closed his eyes as he turned on the faucet, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Her voice was barely audible behind him.

He swallowed a lump that had lodged in his throat, and turned to face her. “For tonight,” he said, with complete and total honestly.

She nodded, stuffed her hands into the back pocket of her jeans and turned toward her bedroom. “You’re welcome.”

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