Page 48 of Love Sick

“I think—” he tugs on a lock of my hair “—it’s hilarious.Sapphire.”

“Youknowit’s Grace,” I say, voice softer than I want it.

“Right.” He brushes a hand over his mouth, hiding his self-congratulatory smile. “I keep forgetting.”

“You are so difficult. Fine. Come in, and I’ll get your present.” I’d been planning to leave it on his doorstep tomorrow morning, but I need to even the scales.

His smile disappears. “Wait. You got my name, too?”

A cynical chuckle vibrates in my throat. “As the world works perpetually against me, I’d think that answer obvious. Come in, Julian. It’s cold outside.”

“Come in…to your apartment?”

I wave my hand about the place, from the carpeted floor to the popcorn ceiling. “Do you think I have Julian traps in here? I don’t bite.”

His expression blanks. He rocks on his feet at the threshold.

“Julian?” I tug on his coat lapel. “The heat.”

After crossing over and shutting the door, he lingers in the entryway. His attention travels from my worn blue sectional to the art on my walls to my bookshelf. It isn’t until he steps into the living room that the sensation of my space being disrupted, invaded and conquered sweeps over me.

I flush from head to toe. “Hang on. Let me get it.”

Heart racing, I set the box of sugar on my dining table and slip into my bedroom to grab his gift. The mirror snags my attention and I fix a few stray glittery hairs before stepping out.

He eyes the present like it might explode in his face. I kick myself that I didn’t think of that. A frickin’ glitter bomb! Pink glitter. Maybe with unicorns.

The witch hiding in my limbic system titters evilly, hoping she gets his name for Secret Santa next year.

He takes it in his hand. “Did you wrap this?”

“Of course I did. Why?”

“It’s very…sparkly. It has ribbons. And a bow.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Is ittoopretty for you, Julian?”

His gaze leaves the gift, straying to me. “Yes.”

I sweep an impatient gesture toward the box. “Thenunwrapit.”

Several seconds pass before he blinks and slides a finger under the edge of the paper. He pulls out the green and silver coffee mug I’d found on Etsy, complete with a snake as the handle.

A dark eyebrow arches. “Slytherin.”

“Now everyone will know exactly what you are when you drink your coffee in didactics.” I shoot him a satisfied smirk and clap him on the shoulder, but my focus zeroes in on the hard muscle beneath my hand, palpable despite his winter coat.

Squee!

He doesn’t look built under the scrubs and black Henleys he wears, but the marble beneath my hand is lean and cut. My mind conjures potential images of him shirtless and every nerve ending in my body jolts energy to places I refuse to acknowledge.

The air thins as my hand lingers on his arm. My survival instincts flare red and scream at me to let go.

I don’t.

If he was a lion and I was a zebra, I’m not sure I’d run.

His eyes go dark. Raptorial. Like he can smell the pheromones. My stupid hormones melt my willpower.

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