Page 52 of Pulse
I try not to giggle.
“She’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but I find myself looking forward to dealing with her every day,” he says, smiling softly. “She’s strong and fearless … and wildly, ridiculously beautiful.”
I gasp, holding my breath.
“If she wasn’t my co-worker, and I wasn’t on duty, and I wasn’t so fucked up that it would undoubtedly ruin everything between us eventually, I’d shoot my shot and pray that it works.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, his features harden. It’s as if he said too much, let his guard down too low, and is preparing for a pushback.
Nope. Sorry, Troy. You don’t get to take that back.
I turn toward the house. “Well, it’s a good thing she’s your co-worker, and you’re on duty because if your shot looks anything like it did in the closet this afternoon, it needs some work.”
His gaze snaps to mine, bewildered.
I laugh. “Let’s get back. I need a shower.”
Relief washes across his face, so I wink at him.
“Too bad you have such a shit game,” I say, walking backward so I can see him. “Or you could’ve joined me in that shower.”
My laughter trails me as I jog back to the house.
“She’s strong and fearless … and wildly, ridiculously beautiful.”
I’m not sure what just happened, but I know he’ll need time to process that.
And maybe, so will I.
Chapter Twelve
Dahlia
I scrunch the ends of my wet hair with a towel and look at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy, and despite my earlier nap, there are bags beneath my eyes. But, by far, the worst part of the image looking back at me is my hair. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I shoved in my bag last night before I left for Morgan’s. I know I packed a detangling comb. It must’ve fallen out of my cosmetics bag inside my backpack.
How was that just last night?
I take a step back and look at my reflection again.
Troy’s shirt, a soft black fabric that smells faintly of his cologne, hits me mid-thigh. My clothes from Morgan’s were soaked, thanks to a smashed water bottle buried in my stuff. Luckily, there was a stack of Troy’s clean T-shirts on the bathroom counter. Figuring he wouldn’t mind, I helped myself to one.
The feeling of his shirt against my naked skin is more erotic than it should be. Every time the material brushes against mynipples or swishes against my ass cheeks, a rush of energy shoots through me as if Troy was touching me himself.
A girl can freaking wish.
I dry my hair again and head into the bedroom to search for my comb. I come to a screeching halt when Troy appears in the doorway to the hall. Black sweatpants, no shirt—the man is a whole damn meal.
I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this.
He looks me up and down, taking his time as he gazes at the length of my body. I don’t mind. It affords me a moment to drink him in, too.
“Nice shirt,” he says, lifting his eyes from my tits to my face.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.Hope you don’t mind. It was this or I was going naked. All my clothes are soaked from an exploded water bottle.”
He rolls a suitcase into the room and places it by the closet. “Your stuff came. Grey dropped it off a little while ago.”
“Should we unpack or just assume this might be over tomorrow?”
