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His face glitches momentarily, heat rising up his cheekbones.
I think back to my phrasing and flush. Now we’re both thinking about him gettingon my back.
He recovers faster than I do. “I told you to let me do my job.”
“And without me you wouldn’thavea job. I wanted to help out. Sue me.”
“If you keep pulling stunts like this someonewillend up getting sued.”
I tip my head back and growl in frustration, barely aware that Mitch is still holding me upright. It’s only when I tuck my chin against my chest, looking up at him through my lashes, that I see his arm extended and flexing, the vein in his bicep bulging and protruded.
Oh.I blink slowly and my brain begins to loosen.
“Steady your feet,” he commands suddenly. I look into his eyes and feel a little weak. “Put your weight into them and hold steady so you can regain your balance.”
I do as he says and I see his shoulders relax in approval.
I swallow hard. Interesting.
“Now stand straight and let go of the sack.”
Our eyes burn straight into each other’s, bad thoughts aflame behind our molten irises. His mouth is a flat hard line, his jaw bunching with restraint.
I almost raise an eyebrow.I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mitch.
I carefully regain my balance, shifting my weight so that I can stand upright and then letting go of my grip on the bag, my gaze resting on his strong, steady hand.
You couldn’t be in safer hands.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say breathlessly, trying to act more composed than I feel.
Mitch is looking at me through half-mast eyes, his chest heaving in fast pumps as he maintains his grip on the sack. His gaze stays on my parted lips for one long moment and then we’re staring into each other’s eyes again, alarm and confusion making our breathing quick, our cheeks ruddy.
I cross my arms across my chest, hoping that my jumper is thick enough to disguise what’s happening beneath it.
He follows the movement, his body emitting pheromones that are drugging me comatose, but then his brow is dipping and his muscles are setting like steel.
“What’s that?” he asks suddenly, his eyes unmoving from a spot on my sleeve.
“It’s a jumper. You should try wearing one some time.” Mitch’s muscles can be seen from Saturn’s farthest ring. I endure daily cardiovascular murmurs when I catch sight of his swollen biceps. My eyes stray briefly to them now and my heart pumps a little faster.
“No,” he says, his eyes still staring intently at an area on my forearm. “I mean what’sthat?”
I look down at the lower part of my sleeve – the fabric fitted and an adorable baby pink – and I blink at it in confusion, attempting to see what he’s seeing.
It takes me a moment.
Then I get it.
“Ohhhh,” I say, because I would very much like to avoid where this conversation is about to go. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of dirt.”
His eyes fix onto my own like he’s ten seconds away from boiling point. Then they’re back on the dusty brown hand-print marring my sleeve, his jaw muscles rolling as he silently takes it in.
I’m so overwhelmed by the past ten minutes that I try to lighten the mood with a light laugh and an easygoing, “Seriously, Mitchell, it’s no biggie–”
“I’m starting to realise that you say that a lot, even when it comes to things that are in fact pretty big.”
His neck is heating up and so is mine, both for different reasons. He’s quietly getting angrier and angrier, whereas I’m becoming lightheaded with flattery. How is it that a man who doesn’t even know me is more willing to come to my defence than people who I’ve been literally born and raised with? I try to think of that quote from the Bible, something about the people in your hometown respecting you the least. I’m starting to quite plainly see that there’s more than a pinch of truth in that.
