Page 136 of A Million To Fall

It’s to brace for the next wall he’s about to hit.

“Uh, well, there’s no credit check,” I say, smiling. “You obviously have to pay rent. I don’t know exactly how much it is, my mom will have to tell you. You have to sit down and talk with her still, sign the lease and all of that. It’s technically only meant to be temporary, but she said the apartment is yours as long as you need it. The rent gets reported to the credit agencies, so you’ll actually able to build credit. And then, maybe in a year or two, you’ll be able to find something else for you and Cass and Bronx, if you want.”

“Skye—” he breathes but breaks off.

“There’s more,” I add. “I know you said that you spoke to a lawyer a few months ago about, like, doing the custody stuff, and how you have to pay all these legal fees?”

He nods.

“My mom has an attorney who helps her a lot with clients who need restraining orders and stuff. Her name’s Sasha. And she said she’ll help you pro bono.”

Boston just stands there, his gaze moving between me and our surroundings like his brain can’t decide which thing is less believable.

The apartment.

Or me.

“You really did all this?” He finally asks, twin creases between his brows.

I shrug awkwardly. “My mom did most of it.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he decides, his voice low. Rough. “You did.”

He takes a step toward me. Then another. Slow. Like he’s approaching an animal that’s easily spooked.

I swallow, eyes wide and glued to him while my breath turns shallow. Heat unfurls somewhere deep inside me. He stops in front of me.

Close.

Too close.

Close enough that I can see the tiny scar on his jaw—the one he got when he fell climbing a tree when he was six. Close enough that I can make out the lightest ring of blue around his pupils before they bleed into a steely gray.

Close enough that I should step back. Except my body won’t move.

“Boss,” I whisper.

The nickname tastes different now. Richer. More dangerous.

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Yeah?” The word is only breath.

My pulse stutters, roaring in my ears.

His hand lifts slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. But I can’t.

I won’t.

His knuckles brush my cheek. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts.

He cups my jaw. His palm is rough with use, but his fingers are soft.

The room goes still save for our shallow breathing and the thrumming of my heart.

There's just the heat of his body. And the impossible awareness of him.

A shaky breath leaves him. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his brow creased, eyes flitting between mine.

But the words don’t come. Instead, my fingers curl into the front of his shirt.