Page 89 of Sinful Like Us
I follow his direction. More cautiously, I land next to him but keep my distance. A dreadful six inches separate our bodies.
That should be enough.
I’d normally stand this far from Banks.
Thatcher stares down at me, as though assessing my temperature from sight alone, and I look up at him, aching to step a little closer.
“It should heat up soon,” Thatcher says, standing sturdy next to the oven door. He glances from the kitchen entryway to my arms that hug my body. “Can I?”
My lips pull higher. “Can you…?”
He reaches out and his fingers run gently along my wrist, tingling my soft flesh. I pulse between my legs, and I inhale without the ability to exhale. Warmth pricks my nerves like he’s carried me to a roaring fire.
Our eyes dive deeper, and when I nod him on, his clutch strengthens. He guides my palm over the flaming stovetop, and his hand lingers on my wrist, not letting go of me.
I don’t want him to.
My hip brushes his stoic body, the six inches now shrunk tozero.Thatcher and I risk the nearness, and he’s so perceptive of his surroundings that I trust his instincts if we go too far.
He subtly checks the entryway.
I check more blatantly.
Clear.
Attention returned to each other, I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” I’ve said so a few times already. “I like you—I mean, I more thanlikeyou, which you know…” Nervous flush bathes me, and I stare at him, panic-eyed.
He seems so put-together in this moment, and I’m still frazzled like an awkward mess. Yet, I love how he makes me feel utterly unraveled. As though he’s the only man who can reach a rare piece of me and pull and undo me at the seams.
“You know,” I add unhelpfully.
“I know,” he confirms.
“Good.”God, he’s hot.His whole unfaltering demeanor. His whole being.
He nods back, tension brewing. Thatcher studies me a beat longer. He has that look again. Like he’s staring directly into the brightest, hottest sun. “I want to ask you something that might be hard for you to answer.” He eyes the entryway, then me. “Later tonight?”
Curiosity has latched its sharp claws into me. “You can ask me now.” I whisper even more quietly. “If you think it’s safe to talk.” We hear footsteps above us and chatter in the distance, but the kitchen is ours in this second.
He sweeps our surroundings one more time, then nods. “We can now, if you really want.”
“I want to know.” I cage a breath in preparation. “Go ahead.”
His mouth dips towards my ear, his voice low and gentle. “Why are you afraid to love me?”
I shake my head on impulse, and a cold pain stabs my lungs. “I don’t…I’m…” I lean to the right.
“Watch out—Jane.” Thatcher lifts my hand higher. I nearly pressed my palm to the iron stovetop.
Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I can’t blink or close my agape mouth, and I realize I’m pressed up against his chest.
I ran into his body for safety.
It overwhelms me, my throat swelling.
My wrist is still in his grasp, and he keeps my hand raised in the air. We both breathe heavily, and I manage to say, “Usually…I can articulate what I’m thinking, but what I’m feeling—what Ifeelfor you is so inexplicably complex and I feel like nothing is coming out quite right. Just that alone…scares me in the best and worst way.” I wince at myself. “And that was a terrible non-answer.”
“No,” he refutes, his chest tightened like he’s controlling himself not to hold me. To touch me further and greater. He looks to the right, then back to me. “I understand.” He softens his gaze on me. “Look, I’m crawling through this with you—” He cuts himself off and his features lose all emotion, completely professional. “Be careful, Jane.” He’s still clutching my wrist.
