Page 19 of Blindside Me
“Jesus, Trouble. You weaponizing caffeine, now?”
“I didn’t mean to!” I scramble forward, napkins flying out of my purse like some kind of an emergency kit. “Oh my God, I just assaulted your … your junk.”
Drew looks up, still wincing, and somehow manages to smirk. “That seems to be your thing.”
My face flames. “It is not.”
I place the napkins on his stomach. My eyes drop, tracing a line of dark, curly hair down to … No! Absolutely not.
“The answer is yes.”
His voice zaps through me. I look up. His eyes are dark, unreadable and my breath stutters in my chest.
“Yes?” The statement confuses me.
“Yes, you do owe me dinner after this.” He steps closer, and I’m suddenly aware of the heat rolling off him.
“I do not!” I press the napkins harder, and this time he takes them from me.
His laugh edges on the side of sexy. “Not how I pictured our next run-in.”
“I swear I’m not normally this … violent.”
“It’s fine. You just scorched my ability to reproduce. No big deal.”
A nervous laugh bubbles out of me, half horror, half adrenaline. “Do you want me to help?”
He straightens, still grimacing, and gives me a dry look. “Not unless you’re a trained ice pack.”
I cover my face, groaning. “This is so bad.”
“Eh, could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could’ve missed.”
The situation is so absurd, we both start laughing. He’s half grimacing. I’m giggling helplessly, the kind of laugh that only comes when something is so mortifying it circles back to hilarious.
“It shouldn’t stain. It’s just plain coffee with two sugars. Not cream.”
He takes the cup from my hand and tosses it in the trash, still watching me like I’m some unpredictable storm.
“You’re back here again,” he says, calmer now.
I nod, trying not to stare at his damp pants. “Returning this for my uncle.” I fish the recorder out of my purse and hold it like a shield.
He doesn’t even look at it. His eyes remain on me, and I’m melting into a puddle of bad decisions. He’s not telling me to leave. That should be my first clue that this is about to get stupid.
My second clue? The way I’m not leaving.
Why am I still standing here? Oh right. Because self-sabotage is apparently my love language.
It’s not like we’re touching. Not really. But it feels like if I breathe too deep, I’ll brush up against his control and unravel it.
He’s too close. I should step back. I should.
I don’t.
