Page 179 of The Best Shot

YASMINE

Well.

Shit.

That had not gone the way I thought it would.

But in my defense, I had been losing.

I had needed evidence. Something undeniable. Proof that Hale did not take over just because he was helpful or efficient or worried about me falling off a ladder, but because beneath all that supposed zen, the man was a bit of a control freak.

So I had blurted out, I let you tie me up.

I had not meant, Please take off your shirt and let me reverse the situation immediately.

I had meant, There. Exhibit A, you controlling, smug bastard.

We were supposed to circle each other for another ten minutes until one of us got hungry or distracted or remembered there was crown molding to remove.

Instead, he had looked at the couch, then he had taken off his shirt. Now he sat in the middle of the couch, blindfolded, arms stretched along the back, both hands curled over the worn leather.

Waiting for me to do something.

That was the problem with goading a very competitive man. Sometimes he called your bluff.

And sometimes that man sat three feet away with his shirt off, his jeans low on his hips, and enough confidence to make it clear he did not believe for one second that you knew what to do with him.

I stood near the desk and tried not to look like a woman who had accidentally escalated an argument about crown molding into this.

Sunlight came through the unfinished window and fell across his chest. He looked good obeying me. Long locs spilling around his shoulders, legs spread. Big and strong and unbearably sexy.

I had a feeling he knew it too.

Outside, cicadas screamed in the heat.

Inside, behind the blindfold, Hale angled his head toward the sound of my breathing. “You still there?” he asked.

“No.”

His mouth curved. “Well, somebody’s over there breathing hard.”

I held my breath.

His smile widened.

Asshole. Absolute cocky man.

He believed he could sit there, half dressed, while I circled him and did whatever occurred to me, and remain completely unfazed. That confidence needed testing.

I pushed the overalls down and stepped out of them. One metal buckle struck the floor.

His head turned toward it, and his fingers pressed flat against the leather.

“Hands stay where they are,” I said.

“I know.”

“No reaching.”