Page 32 of The Last Call Home
“No,” I murmur, finally stepping inside.“I think you’re dangerous in a deceptively cozy package.”
She blushes.Or maybe it’s the heat.Or perhaps I’m projecting because I can’t stop staring at her collarbone or the way she’s trying to hide behind sarcasm like it’s bulletproof glass.
“Did you seriously come all this way just to stare at my socks?”she says, curling one foot behind the other, suddenly self-conscious.
I’ve been trained to resist distractions.To separate want from weakness.
But with her, it doesn’t feel like weakness.It feels like waking up after years of pretending I don’t want anything real.
“No.But they are excellent socks.”My gaze dips.Lingers.“And the rest of the view doesn’t suck either.”
She stares at me, stunned, as if she didn’t expect that level of honesty.Or maybe she did—and wasn’t ready for it to land.
Silence stretches between us.Not awkward.Not quite comfortable.Just ...full.Charged.Like the room’s holding its breath right along with us.
Her lips part just slightly.Not to speak.To breathe.
And for a heartbeat, the world narrows to this—her in front of me, soft cotton clinging to her frame, suspicious amusement flickering behind her eyes.If I reach for her now, she might let me.
Or she might tell me exactly where to shove it.
Either way, I’d deserve it.And still want more.
But I don’t move.
Because this isn’t about what I want.
It’s about what we could make happen—if I figure her out before I make my next move.
This has to be done with finesse.Tactics, even.
The strategy is simple: get to know the girl, lay my cards on the table, and wait for her next move.
Even if the wait fucking kills me.
“So, why are we here?”she presses, arms crossed, mouth tilted in suspicion and something dangerously close to amusement.
“Rosalinda mentioned you went home sick.”I shrug, trying for casual.“Thought I’d check on you.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I don’t have your number.”I give her a look, one I know hits a nerve, then take a step closer and reach for her phone sitting beside the coffee.“But you could fix that.Just unlock it for me.”
She narrows her eyes, a full-body eye roll coming for me like it’s clocking overtime.“Nope.I’m not sharing my number with you.What are you going to do, send me cryptic texts from an encrypted line?”
“Does Mal have your number?”I ask, knowing the answer will tell me more than she’s ready to admit.
Her snort is so dismissive it almost has a gravitational pull.“What is this, some pissing contest?‘If he has it, I should, too?’”
She doesn’t give me time to answer.She leans forward slightly, her arms still crossed, her shirt sliding a little down one shoulder, exposing that damn strap again—the tank top one, thin and clinging.And I’m too distracted for a second too long.
“See, that’s what I don’t get about you two,” she goes on.“It seems like you’re into me, and then suddenly, you’re very into him.”
“Would that be a problem?”
She lifts her chin, lips parting in a tight, sarcastic smile.“As I said earlier, you tell me who you are to each other—because I know there’s something.And I want to know what role I’m playing in whatever this is.The mystery woman?The distraction?The screw-to-ignite-some-kind-of-jealousy pawn?”
I watch her closely.Too closely.
