Page 122 of Cross Check

Does he touch himself?

Does he think about me when he does?

My attraction to him is almost uncontainable at this point. Obnoxious, maddening feelings take shape when he hands me a mug of coffee poured just the way I like. They grow when we sit next to each other on the couch, inches apart but not touching.

Never touching.

The feelings reach their peak when I catch him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye. He looks away as soon as I notice, but not before he tucks a secret smile into his own mug.

I’ve resorted to cold showers. The arctic water is the balm I need to regain control of the situation. Jude emailed me about a team meeting next week, and it’s the perfect excuse to unravel myself from this fantasy I’ve found myself in.

Grant and I can play pretend all we want, but at the end of the day, the time we’re spending together won’t lead anywhere. It can’t lead anywhere. That hasn’t changed, and as I step out of another shower that does little to numb my unrelenting crush, I decide I’m ready to clamp down on the infatuation that’s reached its breaking point.

I open the door to the hallway and shiver at the air conditioning that greets me. I step toward my room, moving at the exact moment Grant rounds the corner.

His chest collides with my shoulder. His phone goes flying, and my towel slips. I’m quick to clasp it with a death grip to prevent any accidental flashing, and I step back.

“Sorry. That’s my fault.” Grant scoops up his phone and lifts his gaze. His eyes widen when he sees me. He tracks the drop of water that slides between my covered breasts, his jaw hinging open then closed before his throat bobs with a swallow. “I was, ah, distracted. Phone. The guys.”

“That’s okay!” My voice is an octave too high. I’m blaming it on the glide of his shirt against my bare skin. “I wasn’t looking where I was going either.”

“I was just…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. His cheeks are flushed dark red. He coughs and shifts on his feet. “Heading to my room.”

“Same here.” I practically sprint across the hall, opening the door to my room and hiding behind it. “Are you hanging out with your friends tonight?”

“No. I’ll be around.” There’s a long pause. Grant’s looking at the floor now, and I hate myself for wishing he was still looking at me. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Yeah. Yes,” I say, glad to keep our conversations moving toward normal. “A movie sounds great. How about a thriller?”

“Not my top choice, but I can be persuaded.”

“Really?” I feign innocence, but it’s not my top choice either. I only suggested it because I might literally combust if I had to sit next to him during a sex scene in a romcom. “You don’t like learning about creative uses for chainsaws?”

“Can’t say I do.” He finally lifts his chin, his attention back on me. “But I’ll give it a shot with you.”

I spend the day reading through the interview requests my assistant, Jessica, forwards to me. I keep track of the ones that sound the most important, sending the list to Jessica with approval to move forward with scheduling. I book a flight back to Denver, adding my confirmation number to the app while the hint of regret sits in the pit of my stomach.

If that moment with Grant after the shower told me anything, it’s that I need to get home. Texting is one thing, but being together in a confined space for a prolonged period of time is irresponsible.

What if he had told me to drop my towel? Would I have done it?

What if he asked to kiss me? Would I let him?

Yes, I think. Yes I would.

By the time I sit on the couch later that night, my head hurts from staring at my laptop screen. I grab a blanket and drape it over my legs, fighting off a yawn when Grant steps into the living room.

“I’m going to make popcorn in a minute,” he says, and I freeze.

“You’re wearing a crop top,” I breathe out.

My eyes roam down his body, looking at him the same way he looked at me when I was in my towel. I study his deep-cut abdominal muscles. I marvel at his tan skin and the light blue shirt that stops halfway down his midsection. The top shows off a dusting of dark hair, and I bite back a whine at how hot he looks.

“And you’re wearing earrings.” He walks toward me and touches the small studs I’ve had in since I got here. His fingers linger on the curve of my ear for a split second before moving away. “Those are very pretty.”

“Thank you. You look…” I trail off. Good isn’t close to sufficient. Every divot on his body is perfectly carved, a chiseled gift from the gods themselves. Other words come to mind—perfect. Magnificent. Mesmerizing. I panic at the effect he has on me and land on the most neutral descriptor that comes to mind. “Strong.”

“That’s what spending time in a weight room will do for ya. And learning how to eat protein.” Grant moves to the couch, unaware of the chaos in my head. He takes the spot on the right and grabs a remote. “Ready for some murder?”