Page 27 of At the Edge with You

Or so I think, because when I look over my shoulder, I find that I like the view of Jett Thomas Cook even more.

“I’m sure Kitty will help you switch things around. Make it your own.”

His hair is falling every which way, and his brown eyes are intent on me. His arms are thick, bulging, and covered in tattoos. The Pink Belles shirt he wears is a little too big, but it doesn’t make him look small. No, nothing could ever do that. A wave of desire rushes through my body, catching me so off guard I grip the side of the desk and take a deep breath. I don’t understandthese wild feelings I have when he looks at me. But then, has anyone ever looked at me the way Jett does?

Like I’m the only person in the world he wants to look at.

As if devouring me would be the best meal of his day.

I usually hate when people look at me, but under his gaze, I feel just fine.

I crave it.

I draw a deep breath as he asks, “Fable, you good?”

I nod quickly, inhaling sharply before blowing out the breath to center myself. “Fine, just overwhelmed.”

It’s not a lie. I am just that, but I’m sure he thinks it’s because I’ve lost someone important to me and not because I want to know what would happen if he touched me. Would heat explode between us? Or is it the unknown that has me going? What if I kissed him? Could I enjoy it? Would I like his taste? Could I orgasm with him? Would I lose my train of thought and think about what I want for dinner? I don’t know, but Iwantto know.

And that terrifies me to no end.

Would he want me?

Holy shit, why am I thinking these things?

“Why aren’t you married?” I blurt out, and instantly, my face floods with heat. Did I really just blurt that out? To Jett?

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

I’m met with silence, and eventually, I look up at him to find him watching me. He crosses his arms over his chest as we lock eyes. His face gives nothing away, and I don’t know if he’s surprised by my question or offended. Instead, he simply asks, “Why aren’t you?”

I shrug, and while I don’t want to answer him, I know I need to since I was the one to ask first. I go with the generic answer. “I’ve been busy, and I haven’t found someone I want to settle down with.”

“Been looking, though?”

His words are rough, his eyes searching mine. “When I can,” I say, and he nods.

“Same,” he says, and just like my answer, I feel his is equally as generic. But there is more. His eyes move down my body and back up, leaving a trail of heat I’ve never experienced in my life. I swallow hard and then lick my lips. He tracks the movement with his eyes, and I don’t know if he’s going to leave or push me onto my grandfather’s desk.

Is it bad I’m hoping for the latter?

He looks away, filling his chest with air before he lets it out on a long sigh. “Come on. I’ll show you the apartments.”

Jett leaves the room, and I swear I’m able to take in my first real breath. He just monopolizes the air around me. And the way he looks at me…? He has me on an edge I don’t understand. I want to fall so desperately, and that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. What edge am I on? What am I falling for? I have no clue. But one thing is for sure, I haven’t felt like this in my whole life. While it freaks me out, it also thrills me.

I just wish I knew whatitwas.

My mouth is dry, and I lift my head when I hear him call my name. I rush out of the office and cross the lobby to the door he is waiting in front of. “This code is my birthday.”

I press my lips together as he pushes the door open, and we enter another lobby area. Unlike the previous space with couches and a table, this is just a room with three doors. He pushes open the first two that mirror each other, revealing a kitchen, a bar for eating at, an en suite bathroom, and a large bed in the middle of the room with a TV on the wall. When he opens the third door, I know it’s his room. Unlike the first two rooms, which are painted a light green, his is slate gray with black and white accents. It’s very monotone but very Jett. Broken sticks are lying in the corner, and he has a huge black leather couch with an even bigger TV on the wall. The bed in the corner is large toaccommodate his big frame, with soft sheets that I have the urge to touch.

I move past him for a better look, and he grumbles, “It’s a bit of a mess.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t a mess. It’s lived-in.”

I don’t get far before his scent almost makes me trip over myself. He smells like I remember, leather and amber. I remember when we’d hug after a skate and I’d run my nose along his collarbone to get a sniff. Just for a hit. Like I was an addict. I’ve been without for so long that it takes everything in me not to revert to my addicted ways.

“You smell nice,” I say, once again without thinking.

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