Page 35 of Caught Up In You

He’sglowering.

The golden boy’s easy smile is nowhere to be seen, his brows drawn in, his lips drawn down. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, it’s not good.

I approach slowly, but he doesn’t seem to notice anything besides the illuminated shelves of meat.

“You’re staring at the chicken like it wronged your family,” I say when I’m beside him.

His head whips around, and when he realizes it’s me, there’s just the tiniest bit of softening in his face.

“You okay?” I ask, and he tenses again.

“Rough day,” he says, his voice gravelly.

I glance down into his basket, which contains a package of basmati rice, a head of broccoli, and a bottle of soy sauce. I glance from that to the chicken and back.

“You had a rough day, and you’re not soothing it with cake and wine? Or ice cream and beer? Or sixteen different flavors of ruffled potato chips?”

The corner of his lips twitches, and then he studies my basket.

“Are you throwing a birthday party for a nine-year-old?”

“This is dinner,” I reply. “I too had a crappy day.”

His brow furrows. “There’s no protein in there. You’re going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is not the point. We care only for tonight, Owen, and tonight we dine on the finest snacks Food Town has to offer.”

He reaches in and plucks out a cellophane bag of Circus Peanuts. “You’re seriously going to eat these?”

“Orange marshmallows shaped like peanuts that taste like bananas? You bet your high and tight ass I’m going to eat these,”I tell him, then watch the blush climb into his cheeks. Damn, I love a man who blushes. “The question is, why aren’t you?”

“Because unlike you, I actuallyamthinking about tomorrow and the inevitable headache and stomachache and self-loathing.”

“See, just one more reason we wouldn’t work. I’m impulsive and you’re a planner.”

“Except when I’m not,” he says, and the look in his eye says he’s thinking about pressing me against his truck. That smoldering look is enough to ignite a fire inside me, and it’s only the blinding overhead light of the grocery store that keeps me from dropping my basket and leaping into his arms right here in the meat section.

We’ve been flirty texting for weeks, and I’m practically Pavlov’s dog, salivating every time I hear the ping of my phone. But our schedules are completely opposite and equally full, so we haven’t talked in real life.

Standing here in front of him, listening to the voice I’ve been imagining as I read all those teasing texts, each one walking the line of appropriateness, is like lighting a fire beneath our attraction.

At some point during this conversation, we must have stepped closer together. Suddenly I’m craning my neck to stare up at him, my chin even with his pecs. I watch his chest rise and fall, long to press my face into it, to feel the warmth of him, to listen to the sound of his heartbeat. To figure out if it’s as fast as mine is right now.

I reach up, take the candy from his hand, and drop it back into my basket. “Such a good boy,” I practically purr. I let my eyes rake over him. “Milk really does do a body good.”

His left eyebrow rises. “Wyatt, if you want me to show you what does a body good, you just have to ask.”

I arch a brow in return, heat flooding my body. “Damn, Doc.”

And then it’s his turn to drag his eyes over my body, and fuck, do I feel every inch of their path. He pauses at my hips, sweeping across to the flash of belly button just above the waistband of my jeans. His tongue darts out, moving over his bottom lip, and I wonder if he’s imagining sucking the gold ring there into his mouth, tugging on it with his teeth.

Because that’s whatI’mthinking about.

And he doesn’t even know about my other piercings yet.

His eyes narrow when he reaches the deep V of my shirt, the red lace of my bra peeking out, the scrollwork of my tattoos rising even higher.

For the last three months, ever since that night back in January at Sorry Charlie’s, I’ve wanted him. I’ve always been willing to admit that to myself, like letting the thought in would keep things from going any further. But dammit, I don’t just want him in the abstract. I want todosomething about it. Something that will help me forget my crappy day and my pain-in-the-ass mom and the unanswered text from my past. Suddenly all those roadblocks and warnings, all the danger signs, are fading from view.

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