Page 107 of The Fake Out

“Nope.”

What I said next would forever follow me the rest of my life. On my deathbed, someone will lean over and remind me of the stupidest thing I ever said. This would be it.

“Fine. If you won’t put your shirt on, I’ll take mine off.”

Before he had a chance to even work out what I’d said, I’d whipped my ratty t-shirt off and stood in front of him wearing a pair of shorts and my third-best bra.

I needed to plan these things in advance. Then I could have been wearing my best bra.

Really it didn’t show any more skin than a bathing suit top. Or my outfit at Chicky’s.

The smile slid off his face and I could see a small tick in his jaw as his eyes crawled from my face and lower. I actually heard him swallow. A surge of satisfaction ripped through me. There was power in knowing I affected him too.

“Now, let’s talk,” I said sweetly, and dropped my shirt at our feet. “I asked you not to donate that money.”

His eyes snapped to my face. “Fine. I’ll put my shirt on, and you can put yours on and we’ll talk.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

With a frown, he bent and picked up my shirt. “Look, I’m sorry. I was being a jerk. I shouldn’t have teased you. Let’s put our shirts back on and talk.”

I shrugged. “Why do you care anyway? A minute ago, you had no problem with it.”

“A minute ago, I was the only one without a shirt on.” He took a step forward. I’m not sure if he expected me to back up, but I held my ground, even if I did have to tilt my head back some to see his face.

“So?”

“So?” he said, his voice growing louder by the second. “Put your shirt back on.”

He dangled the shirt in front of me, the back of his hand brushing against my chest. A sizzle ran through me at the contact. I gasped, which only made me more determined to not back down.

“I don’t care if it’s ridiculous. I’m not putting it back on.” I poked him in the chest. “You are not the boss of me, Sterns.”

Yes, I sounded like a third grader with authority issues.

He leaned closer, smirking. Oh, I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. “I kind of am your boss, if you think about it.”

“Oh, really?” Somehow my finger-jamming had turned into my entire hand pressed flat against a warm, solid chest. His heartbeat matched the same chaotic rhythm of my own. “Maybe I need to talk to HR about filing a sexual harassment complaint since my boss can’t keep his damn shirt on.”

He leaned closer, glaring down at me like a miffed-off Greek god. The only sound was our breath sawing in and out. His hand clutching the shirt skimmed down my arm, so light I wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.

But then his eyes dropped to my lips, and his smile was slow and a little wild; my breath caught.

“Mae.” That’s it. Just my name.

He took a step toward me, crowding me. And when a 6’5”, 280-pound professional defensive lineman decides he’s going to get up in your space, there’s nothing you can do but go with it.

I shuffled back. My heart pounded. Not in the “I’m scared of what he’s about to do” sort of way; it was more in the “I’m excited for what he’s about to do” sort of way.

“What are you doing?”

Another step. “I haven’t been honest with you.”

“A-about?”

Yet another step. “That kiss?”

I knew that kiss well. My back hit the wall. “Yes?”