Page 10 of Pushed to the Peak

Marigold’s quiet for a long time, frowning at her sketchbook. Then: “Nothing, I guess.”

Her blue eyes find mine, then dart away.

My chest throbs.

For the last sketch, she has me sit opposite her in the booth, arms propped on the table. Close enough to feel her warmth and smell her pretty floral scent, and to hear every tiny rustle of paper.

When will Marigold show me those other secret drawings of me? Not tonight, that’s for sure, not with the way she’s so careful each time she finds a new blank page, tilting the sketchbook away from my prying eyes.

That secrecy sets my teeth on edge. Why keep hiding those sketches? Why act like I’d be anything less than thrilled? Doesn’t she get it by now?

I’m not exactly being subtle here.

“You’re good at this.” Marigold’s mouth twists into a wry smile, and she’s shading in the planes of my chest with such attention to detail, I’m rock hard beneath the table. Thank god I’m hidden by the booth.

It’s heady, that’s all. Her searching gaze, sweeping over every inch of my face and body; the appreciative way she hums sometimes, so quiet I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it out loud. It’s like a drug.

“Good at what? Sitting around?”

“Keeping still.” Marigold pauses for a moment, shaking out her fingers. “You’re a patient man, Flint.”

“In some ways,” I agree. In other ways, not so much. For instance: if I don’t release the tension building in my body soon, I’m gonna grind my back teeth to powder.

It’s worth it, though—the dull ache in my gut; the pounding in my temples. The way my muscles strain against my bones, all fired up and ready for action. It’s worth it to ignore all those signals and hold still, be the perfect gentleman all night, so I can sit here in this booth and soaking up the sight of Marigold chewing her pencil.

“You’ll get graphite on your tongue.” My boot nudges hers beneath the table.

Marigold blinks at me, then looks down at the tooth marks in her pencil. “Oh. Oops. Have I got any…?”

“A bit,” I say, reaching across the table. “Here.”

My thumb rubs gently just below her bottom lip, stroking the dark smudge of graphite. It’s not coming away, but I keep rubbing.

“Flint,” Marigold whispers, staring at me, her lips moving above my thumb. Her pulse flutters beneath her jaw, tapping frantically at the soft skin there, and lord, what I’d give to feel that against my lips.

“It’s coming off,” I lie.

Then her tongue darts out and grazes my thumb, and we both go still.

A groan rumbles out of me, dredged from the very depths of my soul.

“Marigold.” I cup the side of her neck and she lets me. Her chest rises and falls beneath that mist-colored sweater, moving quicker and quicker with each breath. “Fuck, Marigold.”

She launches to her feet, lurching out of the booth on wobbly legs. The pencil clatters to the floor.

There’s no time to stand up. Barely time to swing around to face her—then sweet Marigold launches herself at my chest.

Five

Marigold

“Oof.”

That’s the noise Flint makes when I barrel into his torso, flinging myself like an eager sack of potatoes into his lap. My elbow thumps against the table, sending shock waves throbbing through my funny bone, but for once I barely feel the pain.

I’m too busy scrabbling closer, arms winding around the bar boss’s neck; too busy wedging my knees on either side of his hips. Yes. It’s cramped and awkward and a little uncomfortable in this booth, but there’s no place in the world I’d rather be.

“Jesus,” Flint says, his strong arms wrapping around me and crushing me close. “Okay, so this is happening.”

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