Page 53 of The Games We Play
I lifted my gaze, skepticism all over my face.
“What exactly are you doing with these?”
“It’s fine literature,” he replied, widening his stance and crossing his arms like he was taking up as much space as he could. Not that he had to because his presence was already all-consuming enough.
“Yes, I know that,” I shot back. “But why are you suddenly so eager to expose yourself to suchfine literature?”
Mac bit down on his bottom lip—his tell. A sign that he was scheming something.
Then, he leaned down, resting his elbows on the counter, putting him just below my eye level. His gaze lifted, dark and hooded, as his voice dropped into a low, gravelly register.
“Now, what would be the fun in telling you all my secrets?” he murmured. “Don’t you like a little mystery?”
I scoffed, shaking my head—but I couldn’t stop the smirk that curved my lips.
This was him. The Mac I knew. The unapologetic flirt who had never met a challenge he couldn’t charm his way out of.
So, being me, I leaned down, too, closing the space between us.
Our lips hovered close.
The warmth of his breath brushed against my skin, a slow exhale that sent heat skimming down my spine.
Mac’s hand lay flat on the desk, his fingers twitching slightly.
I let mine drift forward, tracing the tattooed ink on the back of his hand with just the tip of my finger. Deliberate. Slow.
His breath hitched.
“I get my ideas from romance novels, too,” I whispered, my voice sweet and laced with something wicked. “That’s where I learned the thing with my tongue you liked oh so much… the one that had you begging me to do it again.”
I batted my lashes once. Then, before he could respond, I stood to my full height, stepping back just enough to regain the upper hand.
Mac straightened too, shaking his head slightly, his mouth ticking up at the corner.
“Well,” he replied, nodding toward the books. “Let’s hope you’ll allow yourself to benefit from all this research.”
Mac reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. His fingers shifted through its contents and pulled out a white, plastic card, which he laid down on the top of his stack.
My gaze was locked on it and the picture in the top corner. I took that photo of him when he came to visit me at work. Somehow, I convinced him to get a library card, though he never used it… until now.
Clearing my throat with a nonchalant nod, I acted as unbothered as I possibly could and started scanning each book.
But I felt his eyes on me, which made keeping my composure that much harder.
His stare was unwavering. Intense.
By the time I ripped the receipt from the machine, my skin was warm and prickling like a live wire.
“Here,” I said, sticking the slip inside the top book. “Return date is on the receipt. You’re free to go.”
Mac took the books into his arms, lingering just a second too long before flashing me a slow, knowing grin.
“You look devastating today, Penelope.”
“Thanks,” I said as my voice cracked a little on the last syllable. I could kick myself for letting his effects show even in the smallest ways.
With a wink and one last shameless glance down my frame, he spun on his heel and strolled out the door.
