Page 71 of Dirty Like Us

His blue eyes met mine and I felt the almost-electric jolt all the way down my spine. I felt itbetween mylegs.

Holyhell.

Istillfeltit.

That same thing… that thing that should’ve died with all the years and all the miles between us… all the silence… all the time I’dwastedtrying like hell to fight it, to deny it, to just plain numb it out. Coiling fast, hot and tight at the base of my spine… in my lungs, at the back of my throat, every cell of my body catching fire… as every nerve, every fiber lit up in protest of every second we’d beenapart.

It was exactly the same. Only…worse.

It wasmore.

That crazy, irresistible pull I’d felt around him back then had only grownstronger.

His eyes darkened as his pupils dilated… and I knew he felt it, too. Then his gaze dropped to my lips. He breathed in, his nostrils flaring. His jawclenched.

Then he turned and walked away. With mybags.

Oh myGod.

I just stood there, watching him go, the air between us stretching thinner and thinner the farther he got, until I couldn’t breathe. Atall.

I allowed myself two-point-five seconds to freak out. Then I forced some air, shuddering, into mylungs.

Then I went afterhim.

I caught up only when he stopped to toss my things in the back of a black Escalade parked at the curb, hazard lights flashing. I stood there, awkwardly, waiting for him to turn around, every part of me throbbing with the force of my heartbeat; my lungs as I fought to breathe, my brain as I fought to think, myclit.

My knees wereshaking.

No man had ever made my knees shakebefore.

Well, nootherman.

This was not how my body had ever reacted to othermen.

And yes, I was aware that deep, deep down, there was still some part of me—maybe larger than I’d like to admit—that was still that skinny, dorky, lonely girl who’d been bullied on the playground. But making my living as a model over the past decade meant I’d grown a thick skin. Very thick. I’d also learned that no matter how I felt inside, the world did not see me as that skinny, dorky girl; that men, in general, found me beautiful. Way more beautiful than I’d ever felt. I still had a hard time reckoningmewith those pictures of model-me in designer lingerie, my long brown hair highlighted with caramel and honey, my eyebrows perfectly shaped, my cheekbones and chin all somehow grown in to balance what I’d feared would always be an awkward nose, my full lips and long limbs somehow all working together to create an image that was something far and away from that girl inside. Even so, I’d learned how to carry myself with confidence, how to compete, perform, win and even lose with grace. I’d learned how to keep my cool under intense scrutiny, and mercifully, how to handle rejection. Because the world I lived in, even for beautiful girls, was rife withrejection.

What I’d never learned how to do, apparently, was look Brody Mason in his deep blue eyes and not lose myshit.

Lucky for me, he barely spared me a glance as he slammed the back of the truck shut. “Get in,” he said, disappearing around the driver’sside.

I walked up to the passenger side door as he got in the truck. Then I stood there, in the misting rain, still kind of in shock, just trying to get a handle on all the reactions set off by his suddenpresence.

Because how could I still react to him like this? After all thistime?

It was like no time had passed atall.

Worse; I knew exactly how long it had been, and according to my body, I had six-and-a-half years without him to make up for. Preferably immediately, nakedly, andrepeatedly.

I took a deep breath, fumbled with the door handle and opened the door. “Thank you for the ride,” Imanaged.

He didn’t smile. He just swiped a hand through his damp hair and stared me down with those intense blue eyes. I started to register how much older he looked than the last time I’d seen him, though his eyes hadn’t changed. Time had been good to him. Verygood.

Six-and-a-halfyears.

It hit me like a kick in the gut, all atonce.

It wasn’t something I’d ever allowed myself to fully process: the agony of missing him, of wishing things had gone differently for us. If I did, I’d probably curl up and die, right on the spot. Because how could I live withit?

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