Page 38 of Off-Limits as Puck

“I’m fine,” I say, but I don’t take it off.

His thigh presses against mine, solid and warm through our jeans. Such a small point of contact, but my body lights up like a goal lamp. He shifts slightly, increasing the pressure, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

“You okay?” he asks innocently. “You seem tense.”

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“Your pulse says otherwise.” His eyes flick to my throat where I know my heartbeat is visible. “Therapeutic hiking not therapeutic enough?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I stare at him, my eyes accidentally dropping to his lips.

“Chelsea?” My father’s voice cuts through my inappropriate reverie. “We’re discussing tomorrow’s trust exercises.”

I force myself to focus on the conversation, to contribute intelligently about vulnerability and team bonds while Reed’s thigh burns against mine. He doesn’t move. Neither do I. We sit there like teenagers, pretending this point of contact doesn’t matter while very obviously obsessing over it.

By the time the fire dies down, I’m vibrating with suppressed want. I escape to my room, leaving his jacket on the bench like the coward I am. A cold shower helps marginally. The thin walls that let me hear him getting ready for bed do not.

I’m heading to the laundry room with my hiking clothes when footsteps follow me down the empty hallway. I know who it is before I turn around. My body recognizes his presence like sonar.

“Following me?”

“Getting towels,” he says, but his hands are empty, and his eyes are dark. “Complete coincidence.”

“Right.” I push into the laundry room, hoping he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t.

The door closes behind us with a click that sounds like fate sealing. The room is small, industrial, smelling of detergent and possibility. A washing machine rumbles in the corner, vibratingthe floor beneath our feet.

“You can’t keep doing this,” I say, but I’m backing up instead of leaving.

“Doing what?” He advances slowly, giving me every chance to run.

“Following me. Sitting too close. Making me—” I stop before finishing that sentence.

“Making you what?” Another step. “Making you remember? Making you feel? Making you want something you think you can’t have?”

My back hits the washer. “Reed—”

“I can’t sleep,” he says suddenly, raw honesty replacing his usual cockiness. “Can’t think. Can’t focus on anything but how badly I fucked up letting you leave that morning.”

“You didn’t let me leave. I chose to go.”

“Why?” He’s close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “Tell me why, Chelsea. Make me understand why you ran from the best night of my life.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” His hands find the washer on either side of me, caging me in without touching. “Don’t lie. Not here. Not now.”

“What do you want me to say? That it scared me? That you scared me? That I felt things I wasn’t ready for with someone I didn’t even know?”

“Yes.” The word comes out rough. “Say that. Say anything true.”

“Fine. You terrify me.” The admission rips from my throat. “You make me want things that don’t fit in my scheduled life. You make me feel reckless and hungry and—”

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