Page 17 of Baby for My Best Friend's Brother

The same way they do every time she sees me.

“Well, well.” She stops a few feet away and crosses her arms. “Look at you, Mr. Bond.”

“I feel like an idiot.”

“You look fucking hot.”

That shuts me up.

I moisten my lips as she steps closer. She cocks her head and studies me from different angles as if she’s inspecting Michelangelo’sDavid. I shift from one foot to the other—torn between likingherattention and wanting to hide from it.

“I thought you were running errands today,” I say, my voice croaking so badly, I wince inwardly.

“I was.” She lifts the bag she’s carrying. “I stopped by the bakery and ran into Winter, who told me you were getting your tux fit. I figured I’d drop by and, I don’t know…” She bites her bottom lip. “Offer some moral support.”

“Moral support?”

“Well.” She tips her head and lowers her voice. “Immoral, if you play your cards right.”

My breath catches.

I swallow and glance toward the hallway. “The tailor could be back any second.”

“Not for at least ten minutes,” she says. “I peeked at his clipboard on the way in. He’s got another guy in a fitting room trying on at least five different suits.”

“You have a lot of intel. Who’s a secret agent now?”

She takes a step closer. “I have many hidden talents.”

I know I shouldn’t let her in here. After the line we crossed last night… I can still bring her taste to mind.

But I should stop there. Before we cross another line.

But when she touches the lapel of my jacket and smooths it over my chest with slow, deliberate fingers, I stop pretending I want her to leave.

“Let me help you with the buttons,” she murmurs, slipping her fingers beneath the bowtie. “You look like you can’t breathe.”

“I can’t.”

Her eyes flick to mine, amused. “From the collar or from me?”

“Yes.”

That earns a soft laugh. The kind that builds in my stomach and heats my blood. She undoes the top button of my shirt slowly. Then the next, exposing the base of my throat. Her fingers brush over my skin.

Fiery lust shoots through me.

“You clean up well.” She runs a hand down my chest, and I suck in a breath. “But I think I prefer you a little rumpled.”

She tugs my shirt loose from the waistband, slipping a hand beneath the hem. Her touch is warm, electric. My breath comes faster as she leans in and presses a kiss just under my jaw.

“Sophie,” I manage, voice low and uneven. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

Her hands slide to my belt.

I catch her wrists gently, holding them for a second. She looks up at me, bold and soft at the same time.

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