Page 56 of Love is an Open Book
“I’ve got a better idea.” He reaches into the back seat to pull out the first aid supplies. Once he’s slid the handles of the bag over his wrist in a gesture I recognize from my all-in-one-trip groceries habit, he turns his back to me.
It’s the same back I rubbed sunscreen on during countless weekends at the lake. The same back he carried me on when I made the poor choice to wear strappy stilettos out to college bars in slushy winter weather. The same broad, strong back I did my best not to ogle this afternoon, unsuccessful in my attempts for the first time in years.
Yeah, Gavin is hot, but up until now I’ve been able to acknowledge his good looks in an objective way, not this recent and very pressing urge to take him home and kiss him senseless.
Except, when he leans back, nestled between my thighs, and says, “Climb on,” kissing him senseless is the least of what I want to do to him. “Seriously, Gavin, I can walk up a flight of stairs.”
“Do youwantto walk up a flight of stairs?”
“Currently, no. But I also don’t want to make you haul me up the stairs like a sack of potatoes.”
“It’s no problem, Mia.” When I don’t budge, he cocks his head. “Did it look like I had trouble hauling stuff around today?”
That earns him an eye roll. “You are not seriously using this as an opportunity to flex.”
“I mean...” He draws his arms in front of himself, bending them in a way that makes his biceps pop. He’s messing around, but there’s nothing funny about the way the sleeves of his shirt mold to his muscles, or how a slant of sunlight turns the light dusting of hair on his forearms into spun gold.
“You’re not the only one who moved dirt around today.” Ilift both arms in what I assume is a classic weight lifter pose. To sell it, I contort my face into my best tough girl expression.
He lets out a laugh and reaches out to clasp my upper arm. “Where’ve you been hiding these guns?” My pulse skyrockets at the casual touch and I lower my arms, blushing.
“Never underestimate someone who can type seventy words a minute.”
He smiles. “Won’t happen again. How’re your legs, though?” For half a heartbeat, I imagine he’s going to give my thighs the same treatment with a playful squeeze, and I honestly think I’d lose consciousness on the spot, so ridiculously keyed up as I am. But instead, he lifts his chin over his shoulder at my building. “You can walk if you want, but if you let me carry you, I promise not to hold it against you.”
It’s too impossible to resist. “That’s what he said.”
He rolls his eyes heavenward. “This is what I get for trying to be a gentleman.”
“Trying? You’re a gentleman through and through. You don’t have a rakish bone in your body.”
“Rakish?” he says. “Is that some sort of insult based on my profession?”
“Oh my gosh, no.” I really need to get him some historical romances. “Rakes are the devilish heroes in regency romance. An old-school bad boy type. Readers go wild for them.”
“Not surprised. No one wants the nice guy.”
“I do.” I’m so used to debating tropes and archetypes in interviews and panel discussions that it takes me a moment to realize we’re not talking about book boyfriends, and I’ve just said I’m into sweet guys like him. So be it. I am. “It’s a lie that nice guys finish last. Give me a guy willing to embark on a life of crime for a wronged woman over the bad boy any day.”
“I wish you’d stop referring to our first meeting as a crime scene.”
I shrug. “Call it how I see it.”
“Also, isn’t stealing the definition of being a bad boy?”
“You were taking back what was mine. Robin Hood stuff.”
“I’ll take that.” He grins. “Now will you quit being stubborn?”
“If you really don’t mind.” I scoot to the edge of the seat, legs splayed, and Gavin bites his lip.
He turns with a brusque motion and steps close again, bending so I can climb on. I drape my arms around his neck, and he scoops under my thighs, hauling me up, and oh geez, I didn’t think this through. Now I’m plastered to his back, fully touching him from chin to inner thighs, and I’m pretty sure my body couldn’t care less whether this man is a friend or foe.
He kicks the truck door closed and I let out a squeak, clutching him hard with my thighs. The moment my legs press into the firm ridges of his obliques, he lets out a muffled groan, the sound reverberating through my chest. “Sorry,” I tell him.
“Don’t be. It helps if you hold on.” The words sound ridiculously dirty out of context, and since I make a living out of innuendo, my mind inevitably goes there in a heartbeat. And when he shifts his grip, tightening his fingers on the backs of my thighs, I pinch my eyes closed and focus on cataloging every aching part of my body, which unfortunately is a very short list at this point. One singular part of me is aching, and it’s not my hands.
We make it inside, and Gavin’s barely out of breath. Never again will I underestimate yard work as cardio. I’m more winded than he is just from the effort of not focusing on how much of our bodies were connected.
