Page 52 of Most Likely to Deny Love

Jack glanced over his shoulder, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Smart dog.”

The casual compliment sent a flutter through my stomach. I reached for the throw blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch, spreading it across my legs and Pickles.

When Jack finished setting up the movie, he hesitated for a second before sitting down. Not right next to me, but not at the opposite end either. Just close enough that I could feel the subtle heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne. The distance between us felt both vast and microscopic.

“Popcorn?” I offered, already reaching for the bowl to give my hands something to do.

Our fingers brushed as he took a handful, and I ignored the little jolt of electricity that shot up my arm. This was getting ridiculous. We’d held hands for hours at my aunt’s barbecue. He’d kissed me in front of my family. We’d stood pressed against each other in the server room during my panic attack. A casual touch shouldn’t feel this significant.

But it did.

As the opening credits began to roll, I forced myself to relax, sinking deeper into the cushions. This was fine. We were just two adults watching a classic film together. With a dog. On a couch. In pajamas.

Totally normal.

Pickles shifted beside me, sprawling further across my lap and nudging me closer to Jack in the process. Our shoulders touched now, the length of our arms pressed lightly together. Neither of us moved away.

Finally, halfway through the movie, Jack’s hand gently closed over mine, his fingers warm and secure as they intertwined with my own. I didn’t pull away.

JACK

The credits for Rear Window rolled across the screen, casting a bluish glow across the darkened living room. I glanced down at Mia’s hand, still entwined with mine. Her fingers were small and soft against my rougher skin, fitting perfectly between mine as if they belonged there. I hadn’t meant to take her hand, hadn’t planned it. But somewhere between Grace Kelly climbing through that window and James Stewart realizing the danger she was in, my hand had moved of its own accord.

And she hadn’t pulled away.

“My turn to pick,” Mia announced, her voice breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. She twisted slightly to look up at me, her gray eyes bright with enthusiasm. “And I choose Legally Blonde.”

“Put it on, then.”

As she scrolled through the options, I found myself watching her rather than the screen. The soft glow of the television illuminated her profile—the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip. Christ, she was gorgeous.

It didn’t matter, at all, how much I told myself this wasn’t part of our arrangement. Movie night in my home, holding hands in the dark with no audience to perform for. It was happening and there was no way I had the strength to stop it.

Pickles had sprawled across both our laps now, his head resting on Mia’s thigh while his body stretched over to mine. I scratched behind his ears absently, and he let out a contented sigh.

“Your dog is the best,” Mia murmured, her fingers joining mine in petting him. “How did you end up with him?”

“Rescue,” I replied, remembering the day I’d first seen him at the shelter, skinny and frightened but with intelligent eyes that followed my every move. “Previous owner died. No one wanted a half trained Doberman puppy.”

“Their loss,” Mia said softly, running her hand along Pickles’ sleek head. “He’s perfect.”

The movie started, pulling Mia’s attention to the screen. We settled back into the couch, shoulders touching, hands separated now but still near enough that I could sense the warmth of her skin.

Forty minutes into the film, I felt a gentle weight press against my shoulder. Mia’s head had dropped to rest against me, her breathing deep and even. I glanced down to find her eyes closed, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep.

I stilled, afraid to move and disturb her. I should wake her. Send her home.

But as she shifted slightly in her sleep, nestling closer to my side, I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her. Just a little longer, I told myself. I’d let her rest just a little longer.

The movie played on while I watched Mia sleep, memorizing the rhythm of her breathing, the small, almost imperceptible movements of her eyes beneath her lids as she dreamed. Pickleshad rearranged himself to curl protectively around her feet, as if understanding that she needed the extra comfort.

When the credits began to roll, instead of waking Mia, I carefully reached for the remote and selected another film from the queue, turning the volume down low enough not to disturb her. The rational part of my brain screamed that this was a mistake, but I silenced it. Just one more hour, I promised myself.

At some point, I must have drifted off as well. because when I opened my eyes, the room was bathed in the pale gray light of pre-dawn. The TV screen was dark and silent. Somehow during the night, we’d shifted position.

I was stretched out along the length of the couch with Mia curled against my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin, one hand resting over my heart. My arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her securely against me.

Pickles had relocated to his bed in the corner.

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