Page 38 of Mess With Me

She still hasn’t moved, so I do what I never thought I’d do. I resort to pleading.

“Please, just take the bed, Sasha. I’ll sleep better if you do.”

I think it’s that part that finally has her shoulders sagging. Or maybe it’s the sight of the big, inviting shaker bed through the bedroom door. “Fine. But only because it’s just for a night.”

“Two nights.”

Maybe more.

She moves toward the bedroom. “I’ll make breakfast.”

I don’t tell her she’ll have a hell of a time doing that without any food, but I’m too busy being relieved she’s finally giving in. I really will rest easier knowing there’s only one door and I’m going to be two feet from it.

“So…” She yawns, stretching enough that a strip of skin shows where her shirt lifts from her pants.

I busy myself with the sheets.

“Do you have anything for me to sleep in? Or should I just go for bra and underwear?”

I cough, even though I have nothing to cough on.

She has the nerve to grin, the mood in the room suddenly shifting.

My ears burning, I stride past her into the bedroom, yanking open a drawer and finding a T-shirt.

She follows me.

My jaw ticks, but I hand her the neatly folded shirt. “You want pants?” The shirt is going to go down to her knees.

“Nah. How about a toothbrush?”

“I’ll leave one on the counter for you.” I need to get out of her vicinity. I go to move to the door, but there’s not much room between the end of the bed and the dresser, and she’s blocking the way.

“Oh…sorry,” she says, moving only a little.

I edge past her, but I’m still close enough that I can smell the soft floral scent of her shampoo. Worse, she shifts at the last moment, trying to give me space, and the back of my hand brushes her hip.

“Sorry,” I grunt as I pass. But just that simple touch sends heat spreading through my lower half. Dangerous heat I don’t need, especially when I’ve been trying not to think about her in any way except for a job.

“Griffin?” She places a hand on my forearm, sending more heat shooting through my whole goddamned body.

“Yes,” I say as if confirming. I don’t meet her eye. I can’t. I’ll say something stupid.

Instead, I focus on a mole I never noticed before. It’s on her forehead, just below her hairline. I wonder, asininely, what it would feel like to kiss her there. To run my hands through that silky hair.

“Thank you.”

I grimace, forcing my eyes to meet hers.

When our eyes lock, my heart leaps to my throat. She looks contrite, but I still see that strength there. That defiance. It should be irritating—when clients don’t follow our recommendations, bad things happen. But I realize in that moment it’s what I like about her. That refusal to be boxed up. The dance of life in her eyes.

“Thank you for not tearing up that card.”

She laughs, the sound so unexpected it threatens to tug at the corner of my mouth. But I don’t let it. I move away from her so I can get my head back on straight.

After a quick shower, teeth brushed, I’m on the couch, extremely ready to knock off. But I’m not going to fall asleep until I’m sure Sasha has.

Meanwhile, she’s gone back and forth to the bathroom approximately twelve times, then to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. I should have thought of that—it’s been a long time since I had someone over.

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