Page 86 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

THEO

My blood rushes south as soon as she opens the front door.

Fuck me.

If Blakely wanted to mess with my head tonight, she’s successful.

I clear my throat and tuck my hands into my back pockets to keep from pulling her against me and kissing the shit out of her when I promised myself I’d take things slow.

I bet she still tastes like cinnamon.

When she catches me checking her out, she gives me a knowing smirk. “You sure that’s how friends should look at each other, Teddy Bear?”

“You sure that’s how friends should dress around each other, Baby Thorne?” I counter.

Batting her long lashes, she quips, “Maybe I want you to play wingman tonight.”

“And maybe you want me to snap and shove you up against the nearest wall like the last time you were all dolled up.”

Her lips curve up even further. “Would you do that to Colt? Ya know, since we’re just friends and all.”

My gaze slides down her body again. “If he looked like you, I might.”

With a light laugh, she steps onto the porch, closing the front door behind her. Her perfume hits my nostrils as she turns around to lock it. My mouth waters at the familiar scent and the soft brush of her hair against my chin. I step back and give her some space even though it kills me. I can barely control myself around her on a good day. But when she looks like this? I’m fucking doomed.

Once her keys are back in her purse, she turns around and catches me staring. Again.

Rolling her eyes, she explains, “Mia and Ash felt like using me as their own personal Barbie doll tonight.” She waves her hand up and down her body to showcase her outfit. “Which is why I look like…this.”

“You look beautiful, Blake.”

A light blush spreads across her freckled cheeks, and she pushes her red hair over one shoulder. “Friends don’t tell their friends how beautiful they look.”

“Sure they do,” I argue, guiding her to my car and opening the passenger door.

Her eyebrow arches as she gives me a look telling me she thinks I’m full of shit, while the dark makeup around her eyes makes the green color almost hypnotic.

Fucking beautiful.

“Oh, so Colt likes to compliment you on your outfit choices when you go out?” she challenges.

“Only if I’m wearing his favorite hat,” I quip.

With a smirk, she twists in the passenger seat and grabs something from the back. A sliver of skin peeks from beneath her sparkly black top, showcasing her lower back and the tiny set of dimples playing peekaboo above her dark jeans. I grip the edge of the door to keep from reaching for her, well aware of how close I am to snapping when the night has only begun.

Something is in her hand as she turns back around and faces me. I’m still standing at the open passenger door, looking like a dumbass as she reveals my favorite baseball hat I’d tossed into the back of the car after practice yesterday.

“You mean like this one?” She puts it on and bats her lashes at me. “What do you think?”

I think she looks like a wet dream. Like she cherry-picked every single thing I love about her and created the perfect woman with one caveat. She’s untouchable.

For now, anyway.

I slap the bill of the cap, and she laughs again, readjusting it, not giving a shit what it does to her recently curled hair. Or at least I assume she curled it. Her waves are less messy than usual. More tame. I’m not sure which look I prefer. She’s beautiful either way.

But when she’s wearing my favorite baseball hat?

Fuck me.

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