Page 40 of Heart Breaker

Relief flashes across his face, and then he surprises me by closing the space between us and pulling me against his bare chest for a hug. A startled squeak escapes me at the cold dampness of his skin against mine.

“Oh my God—you’re freezing,” I manage as he tucks me into his chest.

A low laugh rumbles softly against my cheek, but despite the chill, despite the fact that his hair is still wet, and water is cooling my arms where he touches me, it feels good. If time stood still and I could stay standing just like this all night, I wouldn’t complain. I lightly brush my palm over his chest and briefly wonder if he’d notice if I licked him there. Just a taste. Wes slides a hand to the back of my neck, his fingers threading lightly into my hair, and I inhale a fortifying breath.

“I am really sorry, Lottie,” he says quietly and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache.

“You’re already forgiven, remember?” I breathe him in for one selfish second before I push lightly against him, and he lets me go.

It’s not that I want to end the moment, but I just don’t trust myself being this close to him. Because the air between us is different now, like something shifted while he was holding me. It’s charged. My eyes track a bead of water as it falls along the sharp lines of his chest, sliding down his stomach before disappearing beneath the waistband of his swimsuit. My gaze dips before I can stop it.

His eyes darken instantly before a slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth as he catches me looking. Heat climbs all the way up my neck.

“Sorry,” I murmur, feeling totally mortified and also aware that I am in serious trouble. Heat floods my entire body as I shamelessly stare at him, every rational thought in my brain struggling to reassemble itself. This is Wes. All of this is fake. He isn’t supposed to affect me like this. I should be concerned about the wolfish smirk on his face, but I like looking at him too much to care at this point.

“For?” he asks.

“Wes—”

A quiet laugh rumbles from him. Those hooded eyes and the way his gaze drags slowly over my face before settling back on my mouth. My pulse stumbles hard enough that I actually take a small step backward.

“Lottie.” He says my name like a warning.

I swallow hard. “Hmm?”

His jaw flexes as his eyes hold mine. “Don’t look at me like that unless you want to be pushed up against the nearest wall.”

The air crackles between us.

I wish I had the nerve to dare my fake husband to make the first move, but I don’t. Instead, I lead the way inside with a much better idea.

FIFTEEN

Wes

Lottie Hart is far more persuasive than she looks. That is the first problem. The second problem is that I already wanted her badly enough to make questionable decisions before she’d smiled at me over her shoulder in my kitchen and suggested opening a bottle of wine. Somewhere between the pool and her saying come on, one glass won’t kill you, I lost whatever survival instincts I had left. Because what I’m doing right now—sitting across from my fake wife at midnight while tension crackles so relentlessly between us it practically needs its own seat—feels like an objectively terrible idea.

Not that it’s stopping me.

I’ve always had a hard time walking away from things that pique my interest. Curiosity, attraction, adrenaline—it all scratches at the same part of my brain. The part that pushes instead of retreats. The part that wants to know what would happen if I stepped closer instead of backing away. And Lottie—Christ. It is quickly becoming impossible not to move toward her.

Maybe it’s her quick mouth, or the way she challenges me without realizing she’s doing it, or the fact that every time I think I have her figured out, she says something that cracks the whole theory wide open again. Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that earlier tonight, she’d looked at me like she wants me too. That certainly isn’t helping.

I turn the wine glass slowly between my fingers as she moves around the kitchen barefoot, opening cupboards like she’s lived here a lot longer than three and a half weeks. She glances back at me. “You know, for someone who owns this giant house, you have surprisingly limited snack options.”

“I travel a lot for work,” I remind her.

“That’s not an excuse for not owning chips.”

The oversized sweatshirt she changed into hangs off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin that absolutely does not help the situation currently unfolding in my head. Neither do the tiny sleep shorts. Or the fact that her hair is still slightly damp from her shower. Or the wine.

Definitely not the wine.

“You’re staring again,” she says casually, reaching into another cupboard.

I lean back slightly on the stool, completely unashamed. “Can you blame me? This whole situation is your fault.”

That makes her laugh softly as she pulls a bag of popcorn out of the cupboard in victory. “Hey, you’re the one threatening to pin me against walls.”