Page 56 of The Thing About My Rival

A questioning crinkle creeps across her forehead.

So perhaps she doesn’t regret it. That’s gratifying.

I push a stray strand of hair off her face, my finger grazing her temple, another precious bit of contact. “Imean, because you deserve better than that. You are leagues above a shag in a cupboard.”

She shrugs and sighs. “Anyway…”

And slowly she turns away and moves toward the door.

My feet instinctively carry me after her and, with a mind of their own, my hands shoot out and reach for her shoulders. Fuck knows what they plan to do when they get there, but I suspect it will involve spinning her around and our tongues tangling.

With two clunks she unlocks the door and pulls it open, sending a rush of cool night air over my face that brings me back to my senses. Christ, I can’t grab her. That would be very, very wrong.

I regain control of my upper limbs just in the nick of time, right as she turns to let me through, and I push my fingers through my hair like that was what they were up in the air for all along.

“See you Monday morning,” she says with a hushed tone of resignation.

“Right. Yeah. Monday.” I plunge my hands back into the safety of my jacket pockets, step past her and through the door.

It clicks shut behind me.

Followed by the clunk of one deadbolt, then the other.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DREW

I might have had only two small glasses of Guinness, but I weave a line toward the bar that would suggest I’ve had closer to twenty.

My brain is on the spin cycle, my legs like overcooked spaghetti.

How in the holy mother of hell did I keep my hands off him?

How was that the hottest thing I’ve ever known even though he barely touched me?

How the hell can I ever look at him again and not be overwhelmed with the desire to smash my lips against his, or suck one of them between mine, or just gently rest mine against his for several hours?

When I reach the bar, I grip the edge and bend at a right angle from the waist, letting my head dangle free in the hope the blood will rush to it and calm my racing thoughts, steady my trembling hands, and slow mygalloping heart. The wetness between my legs is a lost cause though. That’s not going away any time soon.

I close my eyes and take those deep breaths the mindfulness coach in Portland taught us. In for four…hold for four…out for four…hold for four…in for four…hold for f?—

Two sharp taps sound on the door.

The door I just closed on Hugo.

My heart lurches, and I bolt upright, making my head swim. “Jesus.”

Now my blood is pumping even harder. I clutch my forehead with one hand and steady myself against the bar with the other.

I glance back at where Hugo and I had been sitting, to see if he’s forgotten something. But there’s nothing there other than my empty glass and his almost full one, and he wasn’t carrying anything when he came in anyway.

Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s someone else who forgot something and saw the faint lights still on.

Or maybe it’s drunken assholes wandering around knocking on pub doors. Since all the others are probably still open, they’d have better success pretty much anywhere else.

Yes, it’s probably not Hugo. Why would he come back? No need at all.

Blowing out a long, cleansing breath and smoothing down my hair, I make my way back toward the door.

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