Page 95 of If Love Had A Manual

“You know,” I say, hands shoved in my jacket pockets, “I fear you might’ve wasted your one child-free night walking me home.”

There’s the faintest crease between his brows when he looks at me. “Wasted, huh?”

“You could’ve spent it picking up some hot woman at the bar instead of babysitting me.”

“I am picking up a hot woman.”

It’s a flicker. A stutter in my breath. But he notices, I know he does.

My mouth opens. Shuts. My brain makes a sputtering sound like it’s been unplugged and booted back up again.

When I finally look at him, he’s got that infuriating, cocky little curve to his mouth that says he knows exactly what he did.

Bastard.

I attempt to glare at him, I really do, but my lips betray me and twitch upward because what the hell doI even say to that?

I don’t know when this shifted from casual to something more, but it’s humming beneath my skin now, and it’s impossible to ignore.

By the time we reach my apartment building, I half-expect him to stop on the sidewalk, but he doesn’t. He walks me all the way up. No hesitation. No distance. Just his shoulder brushing mine, steps in sync, like we’ve done this a hundred times already.

It feels easy. Familiar. Yet the air between us is anything but. It’s electric, buzzing with unspoken energy.

“Thanks for the escort,” I say once we’re outside my apartment.

I reach to grab my bag from him, but just as I pull it over my shoulder, the loose strap of my dress slides down my arm. I don’t even get the chance to fix it because in the next breath, Wes’s fingers are there. Rough, calloused, yet somehow gentle, he hooks the thin strap with his thumb and slides it back into place.

I stop breathing.

I can feel everything.

The heat of his fingertips lingering against my skin.

The way his touch burns in a way that has nothing to do with the warmth of the night.

The way my pulse slams against my ribs when his fingers graze my collarbone before he pulls away.

His gaze flickers up, locking onto mine, and for the briefest second, neither of us moves. We hardly breathe. The air between us is thick and charged and dangerous.

So, so dangerous.

The moment stretches.

I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe both of us.

It’s just a fraction.

It’s just enough.

Enough for me to see the war in his eyes, and the way they flicker between want and restraint. The way his jaw tightens, like he knows this is a terrible idea.

And it is.

We both know it.

But his thumb grazes my bottom lip like he’s testing something he shouldn’t be.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he rasps, and I feel it against my lips. “But fuck do I want to kiss you.”

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