Page 10 of I Can't Help It

I need to put some distance between us again, but it doesn’t happen. My feet are glued in place. “I guess so.”

She clicks the pen that I just now realize has been in her hand this whole time, and then she bats her eyelashes at me. “Ready whenever you are.”

Usually, I view eyelash-batting as creepy and unflattering.

But when Ava does it, somehow the action is enticing.

Ava is enticing.

I clear my throat some. “Uh, don’t you need paper or—”

“Nope,” she interrupts, holding up her left arm, “I’m good.”

She’s going to write my number on her arm?

Forget a volcano. At this point, just call me Mustafar.

But I tell her my phone number anyway, only stumbling once or twice with a few digits, and she writes the whole thing just above her wrist without missing a beat.

“Okay.” She stretches her arm out toward me. “Does that look right?”

It looks smooth, and—

The number, Luke.

I swallow before scanning over her sharp, yet playful handwriting and verify that it is indeed my phone number. “Yeah,” I drawl, noticing the few light freckles that dot her skin. “That’s right.”

“Perfect.” She retracts her arm and clicks the pen again. “Well, I’m going to snag a quick snack from the break room. Do you want anything?”

You. But there’s no way I’d use one of those cringey pickup lines about her being a snack.

I’m not Wyatt. Ya know, her ex-boyfriend?

“I’m okay,” I say, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Thanks though.”

She gives me a small smile, and it’s anything but shy. “Sure thing.”

And then she turns around again to leave.

I tell myself that watching her walk away is on the “DO NOT DO THAT” list, but my eyes linger on her retreating figure anyway. I swear she puts an extra sway into her hips on purpose, just to drive me crazy.

How the heck am I going to survive this on-site visit?

TEAM LUKE

Ava

“What the crap is on your arm?”

My best friend Sloane has a gift for being dramatic.

“Is that a phone number? Did some sleaze write his number on you?”

However, Sloane’s dramatic flair usually blows things out of proportion.

“Wait, is that your handwriting?” she asks as I join her in the kitchen. “Ava Meryl Ashton, did you get a guy’s number?!”

The answer is obviously yes.

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