Page 14 of The Contractor's Rose
She jerked back in surprise—and knocked her head against the window with athunk.
“Jesus Christ, Rose. Be careful.”
I laughed, then winced as I reached out again, my fingers threading into her curls. I found the spot and rubbed slow, gentle circles against her scalp. She stilled. Then melted.
“You okay?”
She nodded, her voice a whisper. “Yeah. Just a bruised ego.”
I pressed a little deeper, massaging at the roots of her hair and working through the hidden knot. Her breath caught in her throat—and then it happened.
She moaned.
Soft. Barely audible. But there.
And it punched straight through the last very thin line of control I had left.
My will cracked.
My rules—shattered like wet glass.
“You can’t make those noises, Rose,” I said, my voicelow and rough. “You can’t … not when we’re sitting this close.”
Her breath hitched.
And for a long, thick second, we just stared at each other—thunder still shaking the sky, rain pelting the windows, and something wild and dangerous hanging between us like a live wire.
Everything we weren’t supposed to say was now louder than the storm.
EIGHT
ROSEMARIE
“You can’t makethose noises, Rose.”
His voice was threaded with restraint. Like it was yanked from somewhere deep in his chest. But it was the way he saidRoseagain that made something low in my belly tighten and clench.
Not Rosie. Not the nickname I’d heard my whole life. Not the sweet, bubbly version of myself everyone expected.
No. It wasRose.
And coming from his mouth, it didn’t sound like a name.
It sounded like a promise.
My body froze, every limb still, but inside—I was chaos. My heart thumped like a trapped animal, wild and frenzied, beating against my chest. His fingers were still in my hair, his other hand warm and solid on my knee, thumb still making slow circles that werenothelping my current state.
I swallowed hard. “I—I didn’t mean to,” I mumbled, the words catching. That little moan had slipped out without permission, without warning. Like the truth sneaking out past a lie. “You just … Your hands are …”
“My hands are what, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone that screamed he was barely holding himself together.
God. Gavin Miller was dangerous.
Not because he was older.
Not because he was my dad’s best friend.
But because of what I felt sitting next to him right now. Because of how safe andseenI felt—despite the fact that we were teetering on a very, very precarious ledge. A slightly forbidden—okay, maybe more than slightly—drop to what right now seems like it would be worth all the risk.
