Page 315 of Hate Mates

Beside me, Christiane sighs. "Welcome to my life."

SEVEN

Christiane

Idrop my head into my hands as Adam curses Emmanuel. Trust me, I couldn't agree more, but that isn't helping the situation.

"Do you have your phone?" I ask, already dreading the answer.

Adam goes still. Too still.

I lift my head just in time to see the muscle in his jaw flex.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter.

His sigh is sharp. "I left it on the porch. I didn't think this would take long."

I groan and let my head fall back against the loft wall. "Great. You don't have your phone either. We're going to be stuck here until the day we die."

"Don't be dramatic," he mutters, but even he doesn't sound convinced.

The silence stretches between us, broken only by the occasionalthudfrom below, as Emmanuel amuses himself by headbutting an empty feed bucket.

I fold my arms over my chest and glare at the ceiling. "You know, this is entirely your fault."

Adam lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. "Myfault?Youclimbed up here without thinking things through."

"Oh, so now I don't think things through?" I snap, shifting so I can glare at him properly.

He turns toward me, blue eyes flashing in the dim loft light. "Well, youarestuck in a loft, with no way down. What would you call that?"

I push up onto my knees, my temper flaring. "I would call itbad luck—which seems to happen whenever you're around."

His gaze drops—just for a second, to the way my shirt has slipped off one shoulder. The barn is cool, but suddenly, the air feels thick, charged with something I don't want to name.

I force myself to ignore it, but when I move to stand, the loft creaks beneath us, shifting ever so slightly. Instinctively, Adam reaches out, grabbing my waist to steady me.

I freeze.

His hands are warm and firm, fingers pressing just enough to catch my breath. I glance up, and for once, Adam isn't smirking. He isn't teasing. He's watching me, really watching me, like he's seeing something for the first time.

The tension between us tightens, something raw and unspoken, curling in the space between breaths.

I swallow hard. "Let go."

His hands stay where they are, his grip just a fraction tighter. "You sure?"

Ishouldbe sure. I should shove him away, roll my eyes, say something cutting.

Instead, my pulse betrays me, hammering so hard I know he can feel it.

"No," I manage to whisper, and his lips swoop closer to mine.

"Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this, and I will walk away right now. Tell me. Christiane.Tell me." His tone is roughand demanding, and the grit in it, when he says my given name, makes my knees start to buckle.

Pulling me close, he lowers me beneath him on the hay-strewn floor, and it's all I can do to utter, "Don't stop," because I don't want him to stop. This, whatever this is between us, is as inevitable as the sun rising and falling.

Hands, rough from years of farm work, grip me behind my knees and pull me to Adam, bringing his body closer to mine. I moan against his lips as they own me. A shiver rocks through my body as his lips brush my ear.

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