Page 59 of Get Me to the Starting Line

Whenever I see Leah, she’s usually wearing tight clothes that hug her curves—black spandex pants accentuating her ass and tank tops that hint at full breasts.

But the shorts and tank top she’s in now are nothing like that. The grey fabric of her tiny sleep shorts looks so soft I have the urge to plant my hands on her hips and feel the texture for myself.

Her matching tank is loose, the same soft fabric equally as tempting. She’s not wearing a bra, and I watch as her nipples pebble under the weight of my perusal. Her athletic wear’s hints were accurate.

I follow the lines of her curves up her slender neck to her face. Her beautiful, angry face. Her short hair is tousled like she recently got out of the shower.

“What do you want?” Her tone has a lot of bite to it. I was expecting it, hoping for it, even. Although it must be worse than I thought because she doesn’t even swear at me.

Before I can answer, a delicious smell wafts out of the apartment, making my mouth water. She’s baking something, and the aroma of cinnamon coats her with a scent I want to taste.

She’s still standing in the doorway, making no move to let me inside.

“What are you making?” I ask.

She huffs but doesn’t answer, looking at me expectantly.

I sigh, barking, “Can I come in?”

“No.”

That’s it, just no. No rambling, no lecture, nothing. I’m starting to see why she hates my one-word answers so much.

“Leah—”

She puts a hand up, peering over her shoulder before placing her palm to the middle of my chest. The sight of her slight hand overmy heart distracts me from noticing her pushing me back so she can close the door, leaving us in the hallway.

As soon as the door softly clicks shut, she drops her hand. I want to drag it back to me.

“Do you have a man in there?” I feel the anger surge again. Mine.

Except she’s not mine. Not yet.

“How is that any of your business?” she hisses, looking down the hall to make sure no one’s coming.

“Tell me,” I command.

“Why?”

I can only blink. I don’t have the words. That’s why I brought the gift. Like my thoughts pushed her to realize I’m holding a box, and a rather big one, her eyes flash with anger.

“What’s that?”

“A gift.”

She scoffs. “Trying to buy me off?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“First, tell me if you have a man in there.” It’s unfair of me, I know that, but the chorus of possessive growls in my head couldn’t give a fuck at the moment.

She puts her hands on her hips and asks, “Does Levi count?”

The relief that hits me almost knocks me off my feet.

“Good. Let me in,” I order again. I see it, I’ve struck a chord in her.

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