Page 48 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Why are you so quick to believe the worst about our client, then?” I question.

“Why are you so quick to believe the worst about me?” he counters.

The answer hangs between us. Experience. Life. Bruises and armor and hard-won scars.

“I really wanted it to be you,” I admit. “Behind the billboard, I mean.”

“Yeah?” he smirks. “I’m flattered.”

I give him a half-hearted laugh. “It’s just that if it was you, then I could be pissed and hate you and know you only did it because of the partnership.”

“Ah. I suppose then you’d know it wasn’t potentially your bosses?” he guesses. “The people you’ve known for a lot longer. The people you trust.”

I chew the inside of my lip, giving him a small nod.

“I mean, c’mon, admit it,” I say. “There’s at least some deep down part of you that would love to fuck me over.”

He gives me an amused, searching stare. “I’d never fuck you over. Unless you wanted me to.”

My heart does a little flip, like feeling brave on a trampoline. Everything about the way he says it sounds tempting, like maybe he meant to leave the last word off both of those statements.

“Yeah?” I tease. “What exactly would that entail?”

He runs his tongue between his lips. I see him notice that I notice.

“Things expressly prohibited by our agreement,” he says.

“Like what?”

I know I’m playing with fire. Maybe I’m in that kind of mood. I want to drop a lit match into the center of this and let it consume me. His gaze trails along my jaw, across my mouth, down the curve of my shoulder.

“Physical contact. Gratuitous compliments. Sabotage.”

His eyes flash on that last word, and every syllable seems to sink into me. It takes an increasing amount of physical effort to hold myself in place.

What am I doing here, again?

I absently rub my brow, testing for tender spots, as if pressing on a bruise will distract me from the way my skin feels hungry and electric.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You hit the window pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” I say again, waving off his concern.

He slides off his perch, and suddenly he’s within arm’s reach, standing between my knees. I know we’re too close, but I meet his gaze anyway.

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“Of course they’re dilated,” I argue. “We’re sitting here in the dark.”

“I dunno,” he says teasingly. “I might need to keep you for observation.”

“That would probably be a breach of contract,” I smirk.

He gingerly traces his fingers above my eyebrow. His touch is warm and tentative.

“Does that hurt?”

I swallow hard, hoping to quell the way my pulse is fluttering in my throat. “No.”

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