Page 2 of I Could Be Yours

“Like I haven’t tried.” I roll my eyes. “I have many talents, but rotating my head and dislocating my arms are not among them.”

His look of disapproval deepens.

“Why are you always such a grumpy old man?”

“Why are you always trying to be a fairy tale princess?”

“Why are you such a storm cloud?”

I try to pass him so I can ask Uma for help, but he steps in front of me and crosses his arms. “Because I enjoy raining on your parade, obviously.”

“Obviously.” I really wish I couldn’t and didn’t appreciate how nice his forearms are.

He unfolds them and points to the fitting room. “In.”

“I need help!”

“Oh, I know.”

I flip up a middle finger and blow him a kiss with it. His eyes drop to my mouth and darken.

I hope like hell he’s remembering how my lips feel. It’s been six years. I should not have any feelings about that one stupid kiss. But even now, when I’m faced with his surly, black-cloud-of-doom attitude—which is the version of Nate I’malwaysgraced with—my entire body remembers that kiss in technicolor detail. Every perfect, toe-curling moment of it. It was the best kiss of my life. Still is. Which is endlessly frustrating.

The elusive, brilliant, untouchable Nathan Stiles had been interested inme. I’d been so flattered, so enamored—which admittedly was not uncommon for me. But Nate ruined it by being a giant dick after the fact. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a unique experience for me, either, especially during my serial-dater high school days. But it sucked to have him join the ranks of the hot guys who’d just wanted to taste the forbidden fruit.

We’ve never addressed the aftermath. I assumed the best kiss of my life was entirely forgettable for him, that he never messaged because I wasn’t on his radar. Nate has made it clear that he’s about as partial to me as a case of food poisoning.

Not that it matters. I’m not interested in him anyway. He might be hot, and wildly intelligent, and delightfully broody, but he’s a jerk. Besides, he’s off-limits. He’s my best friend’s fiancé’s brother. The best man to my maid of honor. Also, and most importantly, I’ve sworn off men for the foreseeable future. Especially men who are bad for me. I’ve had my heart broken too many times by guys who didn’t deserve it in the first place.

I head for the fitting room because this stare down with Nate is making me sweaty.

I pull the hoop up so I can get through the door. Again. I turn to pull it closed, but Nate is on my heels. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you so we’re not half an hour late for dinner. Unless you’d like to go dressed like this.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic.

He pulls the door closed and makes a turnaround motion. I do as he wordlessly instructs, because facing him means I have to continue to look at his irritated, pretty face. Turning around isn’t much better. In front of me is a three-sided mirror meant to provide a multi-angled view of the dress I’m wearing. It also means I’m looking at three versions of Nate.

He has on black dress pants, a black button-down, a blue tie, and, in a bold move, shoes to match. He’s taller than me by at least a head. And broad. He takes up way more space than he has any right to. Even worse, he smells phenomenal.

I pull my hair over my shoulder to expose the zipper and tip my head forward to make it easier. The sooner he unzips me, the sooner I’ll be alone in this space, and the easier it will be to breathe again.

I grit my teeth and steel myself as his warm fingers skim between my shoulders.

“The lace is caught in the zipper,” he explains.

“Don’t tear it. I can’t afford to pay for this dress.”

“Why were you trying it on in the first place?” He tugs but the zipper doesn’t budge.

“I wanted to make Rix laugh,” I grumble.

“You in this dress is a horror show, not a comedy reel.” His fingers slide into the back of the dress, knuckles pressing against my spine.

“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically.

“It’s too much. It overwhelms you.” He continues to work the lace free from the teeth.

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