Page 62 of Brew
Is it just me, or is the air suddenly thick between us?
The pad of his thumb brushes against my cheekbone, and this time I don’t hide my shudder. His voice is low when he asks, “Are you affected by me?”
I give him a lopsided look. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s a lot of things I don’t know about you, Erica.”
I can’t help the next words that fly out of my mouth. “Do you want to know those things, though, that’s the real question.”
He blinks for a fraction of a second, then, “Would I be standin’ here if I didn’t?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Brew
This woman shouldn’t be able to do this to me. Like most things in my life, I go with my gut.
Not being able to shake Erica is one thing, butthis?This is something else entirely.
“Why are you standing here?” she breathes.
“One guess?”
“I thought you were helping Pipes?”
“I was. Didn’t know you were here. Somethin’ tells me after that last text you’ve been avoidin’ me.” I pique a brow, one that isn’t as harsh as I mean it to be, but, like usual, Erica doesn’t flinch.
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“We both know you’re not afraid of me, so it can’t be that.”
She’s tentative when she asks, “Should I be afraid of you?”
“You’re really gonna ask me that?”
She lifts her chin in that adorable way of hers. “No, because we both know I’m not, even if I should be.”
“I’d never hurt you.” I know she knows this, but I can’t help myself from repeating it. It’s important that she knows. I never want her to feel afraid, not of me.
“I know that.”
“So why the fifty questions?”
She lowers her voice. “Is this the time or the place?”
I suddenly realize where we are, and she’s right. This time I grin. Enjoying how her eyes widen when I do, I pinch her chin. “You’re right.” I step back, taking her hand in mine. I secure my gun, then tug her toward the door.
“Brew, where are we going?”
I ignore her, then head for the back. One of the offices that Pipes uses for storage is the perfect place for privacy. I lock the door behind us, the light in here dim which is perfect. If she could see how much I want her, she’d probably run a mile.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I admit, caging her in against the shelving. It’s packed with boxes, stationery and anything else around that hasn’t been packed away. I lift her, and as she gasps, I revel in how much I manage to shock her.
It’s utterly adorable, and I don’t find many things in life this entertaining. Except my sweet Erica.
Her bottom lip trembles when she asks, “Do what?”
