Page 68 of No Interest in Love

I move my thumb. It’s just an inch or so, up a rib to the next claw mark, and I pretend to be fascinated by the tattoo still. I focus on the artwork, refusing to look up. But who am I kidding? I’m not fascinated by the ink. I’m enjoying the goose bumps patterning over her skin, the curve of her spine, the ridges in her sides, and the very small—very small—glimpse of breast peeking from her bright orange, ugly, yet still adorable shirt.

I move my thumb again. Up toward that glimpse of boob, but still very much on her tattoo. She’s letting me touch without smacking my hand away, without throwing me a teasing comment. My heart pounds through my neck. I wonder if she can see my pulse.

So I look up.

Meet her eyes.

And lose my shit.

Her glasses have slid down again. Those hilarious glasses that suddenly seem so damn sexy. I imagine ripping them off in a moment of heat—kind of like this one—but instead I reach up and nudge them back into place.

I’m fantasizing about ripping herglassesoff. When her shirt’s mostly off already. What the hell is happening to me?

She lets her shirt fall back into place, the fabric cascading over her soft, inked skin. Something pants and howls right outside, closer than before, but her eyes don’t move. Mine don’t either. And I realize I’m starting to push toward her lips. The lips I suddenly can’t stop looking at or thinking about. A drumroll starts up in the back of my head, putting a beat to the tension thick in the air.

Her eyes are on my lips too. She wants this? Or is she freaking out about me wanting it? Because she’s stone still.

I freeze. The drumroll takes a pause. Silence buzzes through my ears.

This is usually the part when something interrupts the leads, forcing them to take a step back and realize what the hell they’re doing. But there’s no slamming door, no car backfiring or cell phone ringing. There’s absolutely nothing, actually, minus the short, labored breaths echoing between our mouths.

Nothing’s interrupting.

Nothing.

But I’m still not kissing her.

And I’m not sure why not.

“Do you hear that?” she asks, and I back the hell up, confused about the noninterrupting interruption.

“Huh? What? I wasn’t doing anything.”

She bites her bottom lip, and her brow furrows as she looks over my shoulder. When her eyes widen, I glance too.

It’s just a dog.

A normal dog about the size of my calf.

Not a werewolf or a bear or Sasquatch.

“Thatthing was making all that noise?”

She pushes away from the ice machine, taking the heated air with her. I shake off whatever desire I had to rip her glasses off.

“Maybe it wasn’t her,” she says, crouching next to the door. The dog paws at the glass, panting so hard its breath leaves a mark.

“You think it’s hurt?”

“She might be, but I don’t want to open the door unless I know she’s not going to tear my hand off.”

“Ditto.” I’ve seenCujo. I crouch down next to her, pressing my hand up against the glass. “You know it’s a girl?”

She nods. “Looks like she’s…” Shay’s voice stops, and she kinks her neck to look at the dog’s underbelly.

“Pregnant?” I finish for her, though the dog doesn’t look it.

“No. I think she’s…inheat.”

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